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BILLY 

By GEORGE CAMERON 


FRENCH5 STANDARD UBRARYgnmOH 


SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th St„ New York 



Pollyanna 

The glad play, by Catherine Chisholm Cashing, after the 
novel by Eleanor H. Porter. 5 males, 6 females. _ 2 interiors. 
Costumes, modern. Plays 2% hours. An orphan girl is thrust 
into the home of a maiden aunt. In spite of the trials that 
beset her, she manages to find something to be glad about, and 
brings light into sunless lives. Finally Pollyanna straightens 
out the love affairs of her elders, and finds happiness for herself 
in Jimmy. “Pollyanna” gives a better appreciation of people 
and the world. It reflects the humor and humanity that gave 
the story such wonderful popularity among young and old. 

Produced In New York, and for two seasons on tour. Royalty, 
*85 .00. Price, 75 cents. 

Martha By-the-Day 

An optimistic comedy in 3 acts, by Julie M. Lippmann, author 
of the “Martha” stories. 5 males, 5 females. 3 interiors. Cos¬ 
tumes, modern. Plays 2y 2 hours. 

Full of quaint humor, old-fashioned, homely sentiment, the 
kind that people who see the play will recall and chuckle over 
tomorrow and the next day. 

Miss Lippmann has herself adapted her successful book for 
the stage and has selected from her novel the most telling 
incidents, infectious comedy and homely sentiment for the 

S lay, and the result is thoroughly delightful. Royalty, 885. 
'rice, 00 cents. 


Seventeen 


A comedy of youth, in 4 acts, by Booth Tarkington. 8 males, 
6 females. 1 exterior, 2 interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 
3% hours. 

It is the tragedy of William Sylvanus Baxter that he has 
ceased to be sixteen and is not yet eighteen. Seventeen is not 
an age, it is a disease. 

In his heart William knows all the tortures and delights of 
love. But he is still sent by his mother on errands of the most 
humiliating sort and depends on his father for every nickel, 
the use of which he must justify before he gets it. 

“Silly” Bill fell in love with Cola, the “Baby-Talk Bady,” 
a vapid little flirt. To woo her In a manner worthy of himself 
<and of her) he steals his father’s evening clothes. When his 
wooings become a nuisance to the neighborhood, his mother 
steals them back, and has them let out to fit the middle-aged 
form of her husband, thereby keeping William at home. 

But when it comes to the “Baby-Talk Cady’s” good-bye 
dance, not to be present was unendurable. Now William again 
gets the dress suit, and how he wears it at the party, and 
Ooucsis discloses the fact that the proud ^anucnt is in rcalitr 
his father's makes up the story of the play. 

“Seventeen” is a work of exquisite human sympathy 
delicious humor. Royalty, *25.00. Price, 75 cents. 


SAMUEL, FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York Cftr 
New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed 
Free on Request 



% 

BILLY 

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 


*E1~ 

£-ni 


BY 

GEORGE CAMERON 

u 


Copyright, 1924, by Samuel French ' 


All Rights Reserved 


CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned 
that '‘BILLY” is fully protected under the copyright laws 
of the United States, the British Empire, and the other 
countries of the Copyright Union, is subject to a royalty, 
and any one presenting the play without the consent of the 
author or his authorized agents will be liable to the pen¬ 
alties by law provided. Applications for the amateur act¬ 
ing rights must be made to Samuel French, 25 West 
45th Street, New York. Applications for the profes¬ 
sional acting rights must be made to The Co-National 
Play Co., 1545 Broadway, New York. 


New York: 
SAMUEL FRENCH 
Publisher 

25 West 45th Street 


London: 

SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd. 
26 Southampton Street 
Strand 




99 



“ Billy 

All Rights Reserved 


r Especial notice should be taken that the possession of 
this book without a valid contract for production first 
having been obtained from the publisher, confers no right 
or license to professionals or amateurs to produce the play 
publicly or in private for gain or charity. 

In its present form this play is dedicated to the reading*' 
public only, and no performance, representation, produc¬ 
tion, recitation, or public reading, or radio broadcasting 
may be given except by special arrangement with Samuel 
French, 25 West 45th Street, New York. 

This play may be presented by amateurs upon paymem 
of a royalty of Twenty-Five Dollars for each performance ; 
payable to Samuel French, 25 West 45th Street, New: 
York, one week before the date when the play is given, f 

1 

Whenever the play is produced the following notice must ^ 
appear on all programs, printing and advertising for the 
play: “Produced by special arrangement with Samuel 
French of New York.” 

Attention is called to the penalty provided by law for 
any infringement of the author’s rights, as follows: 

“Section 4966: —Any person publicly performing or rep¬ 
resenting any dramatic or musical composition for which 
copyright has been obtained, without the consent of the 
proprietor of said dramatic or musical composition, or his 
heirs and assigns, shall be liable for damages thereof, such 
damages, in all cases to be assessed at such sum, not less 
than one hundred dollars for the first and fifty dollars for 
every subsequent performance, as to the court shall appear 
to be just If the unlawful performance and representation 
be wilful and for profit, such person or persons shall be 
guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction shall be im¬ 
prisoned for a period not exceeding one year.”—U. S. 
Revised Statutes: Title 60, Chap. 3. 



89736 






CAST 

Billy Hargrave, a football hero, 

Alice Hargrave, his sister. 

John Hargrave, his father. 

Mrs. Hargrave, his mother. 

Mrs. Sloane. 

Sam Eustace. 

Beatrice Sloane, Mrs. Sloan's daughter . 
Captain. 

Doctor. 

Boatswain. 

Sailor. 

Steward. 

Stewardess. 


Act. I. Afternoon. 

Act. II. Five minutes later. 
Act. III. The next morning. 


3 


/ 






BILLY 


Scene : Upper deck amidship S. S. Florida. Swing¬ 
ing doors c. as if leading to saloon below. There 
are two cabins on either side of swinging door, 
with practical doors and windows and should 
show distinctly the interiors of each. Entrances 
r. and l.i.e. presumably leading along the deck. 
The scene should be backed by a circular drop, 
partly panoramic. 

At Rise: The stage is bare with the exception of 
the two or three camp stools with backs with 
the name of the boat on them. And a coil of 
rope a little l. of swinging doors center. You 
hear the conglomerate sounds as on a boat get¬ 
ting ready to depart. 

Enter Sailors l. with a case of champagne — 
cross stage and exit. 

Enter back Steward l. with rugs, cushions, 
etc., puts them in stateroom D and exits c. 

Boatswain enters from r. with a big kit bag, 
crosses stage. Enter Beatrice Sloane from 
l.i.e., carrying two ladies' umbrellas, several 
books, a camera and dressing case. She is an 
extremely pretty girl of about twenty. Her 
manner shows that she has been spoilt and al¬ 
lowed to have her own way. She is a good deal 
of a flirt and generally charming. Suitably 
dressed in winter clothing—rather handsomely. 

Mrs. Sloane follows Beatrice from r.i.e., 

5 


6- 


BILLY 


breathless and excited. Carries a handbag with 
card case, check book, pocketbook and a pow- 
derpuff case with tickets in it. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Speaking as she enters) Don’t 
walk so fast, Beatrice. Now we’re on board, the 
stateroom won’t run away from us. 

Beatrice. Well, I thought you wanted to get 
settled. 

Mrs. Sloane. So I do, but I don’t want to drop 
dead over it. Are you sure you’ve got everything? 

Beatrice. I think so. 

Mrs. Sloane. The umbrellas? 

Beatrice. Yes. 

Mrs. Sloane. And the books? 

Beatrice. Yes. 

Mrs. Sloane. And the camera? 

Beatrice. Yes. 

Mrs. Sloane. Where’s my dressing case? 

Beatrice. I have it. 

Mrs. Sloane. And what has become of my little 
foot warmer? 

Beatrice. It’s with the rugs. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Starting up suddenly ) Good 
heavens! My handbag! I’ve left it in the cab. 

Beatrice. (Dismayed) Oh, mother. 

Mrs. Sloane. I have. It must have dropped off 
my lap. And it’s got the tickets and my jewel bag 
and my pocketbook and my check book and every¬ 
thing in it. 

Beatrice. You couldn’t have. Feel. 

Mrs. Sloane. Feel where? Come, we must get 

off. 

Beatrice. But we’ll miss the boat if we do, it’s 
going to start right away. 

Mrs. Sloane. I can’t help it. It will have to 
go without me. 

Beatrice. Wait a minute. Are you sure you 


BILLY 7 

haven’t got it somewhere? (Looking around her,) 
Mrs. Sloane. Where do you think I carry it? 
Beatrice. (Feeling her mother’s clothes) I 

thought you might have- (Searching under her 

cloak.) What’s this? (Pulling the bag forward.) 
Why, there it is. Oh, mother! 

Mrs. Sloane. (Sinking into chair and taking 
bag off her arm) Why didn’t you tell me I put 
it there? If you hadn’t been in such a hurry. 

Beatrice, We’re only just in time as it is. You 
have to turn back so often. 

Mrs. Sloane. Because I have no one to think 
for me. I don’t suppose any of the trunks are on 
board ? 

Beatrice. Yes. Sam is looking after them. 

(Enter Stewaedress c. She is a smiting German 
woman about forty. Blonde, if possible. 
Dressed in the ship’s uniform with a jacket 
over it.) 

Stewardess. Are you going on shore—yes ? 

Mrs. Sloane. No, we are going to Havana. 
Stewardess. You have not a berth already? 
Beatrice. We have a ticket for one. 
Stewardess. WTiat’s the number, please? 

Mrs. Sloane. Wait a minute- (Feeling for 

bag.) Where is it? It’s gone again. 

Beatrice. Here. (Handing Mrs. Sloane bag 
which has slipped from her lap.) 

Stewardess. It is beautiful weather for de ocean, 
yes ? 

Mrs. Sloane. (Fumbling in bag) Where did 
I put them? 

Beatrice. (Indicating bag) You said they were 
in that. 



8 


BILLY 


Mrs. Sloane. I know, but I don’t see them. 
Where on earth can they be? 

Beatrice. Not there? That’s your card case. 

Mrs. Sloane. I know. I put them in my purse 
but they’re not there now. 

Beatrice. Feel in the pocket. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Feeling and shaking her head) 
No. Oh, dear! 

Beatrice. Let me look. Why, here they are in 
your powder puff. (Pulls out tickets, looking at 
them.) 

Stewardess. Everything is mixed in dose small 
valises. 

Beatrice. This is it, Stateroom C. 

Stewardess. Oh, it iss over here. (She opens 
door l. of c. doors and enters c.) 

Beatrice. Oh, isn’t that lovely. You can have 
your chair right outside your own room, mother. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Following her) My dear,. I shall 
never leave my berth. 

Beatrice. Yes, you will, after the first day. 

Mrs. Sloane. I know better. I am always ter¬ 
ribly ill with a German stewardess. (Enter Sailor 
with boxes, bags, etc., l.x.c.J Here, here, where 
are you going with those things? They belong to 
me. No, no, don’t leave them there. Put them- 

Beatrice. In here, please. (Whistle blows. 
Mrs. Sloane screams and slaps hands to her ears.) 

Stewardess. (Entering from cabin and shouting 
at her) Do not be afraid, it iss to tell you ve be go¬ 
ing oud in five minutes, dat iss all. 

(Enter Sam c., carrying bundle of rugs l. Sam is 
a young college graduate about twenty-four, 
good looking, well mannered, but decidedly 
aWare of his own importance.) 


BILLY 


9 

Sam. Oh, here you are. I’ve been looking all over 
the ship for you. 

Mrs. Sloane. Why don’t they warn people when 
they want to make that awful noise? 

Sam. (Handing rugs to Stewardess,) Will you 
please put these in Mrs. Sloane’s stateroom? 
fS tewardess takes them and exits cabin c. Meets 
Sailor who exits lJ 

Mrs. Sloane. Is all the baggage on board? 
There are seven, you know. Two large, two small, 
one medium and two hat trunks. 

Sam. Yes, they’re all below. (Enter Steward 
l. with suit case and rugs followed by Sailor with 
wooden box. To Steward) Oh, that’s mine. Do 
you know where Stateroom A. is? 

Steward. Yes, sir, next to stateroom V. 

Mrs, Sloane. (To Sailor,) Be careful of that. 
There are bottles in it—medicine bottles. 

Steward. (Opening door of stateroom) This 
is yours, sir. ('Steward exits — bus . with Sailor— 
exit u) 

Mrs. Sloane. Why, you’re not far away. Oh, 
I’m so glad, in case of a fire or a wreck, or anything 
of that kind, we’d all be together. 

Sam. I hope you’ll let me be of service to you 
whenever I can, Mrs. Sloane. 

Mrs. Sloane. Thank you, dear boy. I am al¬ 
ways frightfuly nervous when I travel, and if I wake 
up in the middle of the night, as I frequently do on 
board ship, I’ll get you to walk up and down the 
deck with me until I am sleepy. (She exits into 
stateroom C.— closes door. Enter Steward from A. 
exit r.) 

Beatrice. You wouldn’t mind that, would you, 
Sam ? ( Goes to rail.) 

Sam. (For Mrs. Sloane to hear) Not at all. 
(To Beatrice .) Aren’t you ever troubled with 
insomnia ? 


IO 


BILLY 


Beatrice. Only during the day. 

Sam. (Laughs) Do you know you look awfully 
pretty this morning? 

Beatrice. I can’t help it. 

Sam. Really, it seems almost too good to be true. 

Beatrice. What ? 

Sam. Having you this way all to myself. 

Beatrice. Are we the only passengers? 

Sam. Well, the rest don’t count. Do you remem¬ 
ber what I told you last summer on the beach? 

Beatrice. All of it? 

Sam. You know the time I mean. When we got 
on that little rocky island and the tide came in while 
we were talking? 

Beatrice. And Billy Hargrave rowed out and 
brought us home? 

Sam. (Annoyed) Yes. 

Beatrice. That was the first time I ever saw 
him. Goodness, how he laughed at us. 

Sam. The fresh idiot. 

Beatrice. I never felt so silly in all my life. 

Sam. Do you remember? 

Beatrice. I should say I did. 

Sam. I mean, what I said? 

Beatrice. Something about oysters and pneu¬ 
monia, wasn’t it? 

Sam. Oh, you’re not going to put me off like 
that. I’m going to repeat that question before we 
get to Havana. 

Beatrice. Well, I’m ever so much obliged to you 
for warning me. 

Sam. You won’t be unkind this time, will you? 

(College cry heard off —" Transylvania, Tran-syl- 
va-ni-i! Rah! Rah! Rah!” Beatrice starts 
up at the first sound, listening with surprise and 
pleasure.) 


BILLY 


II 


Beatrice. Why, what’s that? 

Sam. (Uneasily) Only some fellows shouting. 

Beatrice. It sounded like Transylvania. 

Sam. Oh, it was a different cry, altogether. (The 
cry is repeated and in the middle of it, Beatrice 
speaks — excitedly.) 

Beatrice. Why, it is! Come! Hurry! ("Sam 
starts off r.) No, through here; it’s quicker! 

(They both exit through center doors as John 
Hargrave enters l. followed by a sailor carry¬ 
ing a steamer trunk. Hargrave is a man about 
forty. Thick-set and heavy on his feet . His 
manner is very sharp and business-like and his 
temper extremely short and when thoroughly 
aroused gets the best of his dignity and dis¬ 
cretion. His clothing should indicate the pos¬ 
session of a very fine bank account, and a good 
tailor. The sailor is of a nondescript age. He 
is short and stout and has a fringe of whiskers 
running around his face. The expresion of his 
face is that of constant wide-eyed surprise. He 
wears a ship's jersey and uniform.) 

Hargrave. ('Sailor at his heels—bumping into 
him) Look out where you’re going. (The man 
stops — irritably.) Well, where is it? 

Sailor. Where’s what? 

Hargrave. Mr. William Hargrave’s stateroom? 

Sailor. I don’t know. 

Hargrave. Then what did you bring me here 
for? 

Sailor. I didn’t bring you—I brought the trunk. 

Hargrave. You told me I could follow you. 

Sailor. And so you can. I haven’t any ob¬ 
jection. 

Hargrave. I told you I wanted to find Mr. Har¬ 
grave’s stateroom, didn’t I? 


12 


BILLY 


Sailor. Yes, and I told you to find the purser. 

Hargrave. You said he was around this side. 

Sailor. So he was, the last time I seen him. 

Hargrave. Well ? 

Sailor. But that was an hour ago. 

Hargrave. Where is he now, then? 

Sailor. Bio wed if I know. 

Hargrave. Now, look here, I want to know where 
Hargrave’s cabin is and damn quick, too. I’ve been 
all over this ship looking for it. 

Sailor. Well, it must be aboard somewhere. 

Hargrave. (Irritated beyond endurance) 
Where’s the rest of the crew? If you’re a sample 
of the intelligence that runs this boat, you ought to 
get shipwrecked. (Looking from L. to R.J Is there 
anyone on board this old tub that knows anything ? 

Sailor. Are you speaking to me? 

Hargrave. Why don’t that confounded purser 
stand around? What’s he here for? Does he ex¬ 
pect people to run after him when he ought to be 
right here to attend to his passengers? What does 
he think he is, the President of the United States? 
(As he turns to exit through c. doors, the Steward¬ 
ess enters.) Who are you? 

Stewardess. Me? Oh, I am de stewardees. 

Hargrave. Can you tell me where Mr. Har¬ 
grave’s stateroom is? 

Stewardess. Mister’s who? 

Hargrave. (Irritably) Hargrave, Hargrave, 
Hargrave, Hargrave. 

Stewardess. My, what a long name of such a 
sameness. 

Hargrave. Do you know? 

Stewardess. Not yet. But maybe he does. 

Hargrave. Who does ? 

Stewardess. Hargrave, Hargrave, Hargrave, 
Hargrave. 

Hargrave. You’re a fool. (He turns arway r. 


BILLY 


13 

and meets the Boatswain, who enters r. and is 
about to pass him. The Boatswain is a tall, singu¬ 
lar man wearing a chin beard and grizzled beard. 
His manner is taciturn and abrupt and he watches 
everything keenly through half-closed eyes. Dress 
same as sailor, with the insignia of boatswain on 
arm. Both these men should resemble as closely as 
possible the types made famous by Mr. W. W. 
Jacobs.) Wait a minute. Where is the Hargrave 
stateroom ? 

Boatswain. Don’t know. Never heard of it. 

Hargrave. Never heard of Hargrave? 

Boatswain. No. What’s he wanted for? 

Hargrave. Don’t you read the papers? 

Boatswain. Course I do. Got the Police Ga¬ 
zette in my pocket, now. Like to look at it? 

Hargrave. (Shouting at him) No. D’ye 
know- 

Boatswain. (Approaching him, confidently) 
Now, look here, Governor, if there’s anything in it 
on the side, I’ll help you land the fellow you’re look¬ 
ing for. 

Hargrave. (Furiously) What do you mean? 
(^Boatswain winks at him.) Don’t do that to me. 

Boatswain. (Nudging him) I’m on, Guv’nor. 

Hargrave. You’ll be off in a minute. Do you 
know who you’re talking to? 

Boatswain. (Coming close and whispering) 

Pinkerton. 

Hargrave. ( T hreateningly) What! 

Boatswain. Ain’t you a detective ? 

Hargrave. You drivelling idiot. (He makes a 
rush at him and the Steward enters r. The 
Steward is a brisk young man in a steward's uni¬ 
form. Very polite and very stupid.) 

Steward. What’s the matter, sir? 

Hargrave. Why, this fool don’t know the differ¬ 
ence between a policeman and a banker. 



14 


BILLY 


Steward. (Politely) Is it a riddle, sir ? 

Hargrave. (Turns) No. Do you know which 
is Mr. Hargrave’s stateroom? 

Steward. No, sir, but if you’ll ask the 
Purser- 

Hargrave. Where is he? 

Steward. Well, he’s pretty well all over the ship 

just now, sir; but- (The doctor enters c. jauntily 

but pauses on seeing the rest. He is a dapper ro¬ 
tund little man with a short, quick step and a very 
airy manner.) 

Hargrave. (To the others) Get out of my way. 
You’re a lot of ignorant dummies. 

Doctor. Anything I can do for you, sir? 

Hargrave. Are you the Purser? 

Doctor. No, I’m the doctor. 

Hargrave. Then you’re no good. 

Doctor. Are you looking for someone? 

Hargrave. Yes. Young Hargrave. Do you 
know where his cabin is? 

Doctor. Hargrave? 

Stewardess. You should say it four times in a 
hurry. 

Hargrave. I suppose you never heard of him, 
either. Do you know anything about football? 

Doctor. No, but I used to be rather good at 
hand-ball. 

Hargrave. You’re no better than these things. 
(Waving toward the others.) Billy Hargrave is as 
famous as John D. Rockefeller. 

Doctor. Ah, now I understand. I presume you 
wish to interview him? May I ask what paper you 
represent ? 

Hargrave. Paper! What are you talking about ? 
Do you take me for a reporter? 

Doctor. That was my impression. 

Hargrave. (Furiously) You blockhead! 


BILLY 15 

Doctor. (Much agitated) Dear me. Would 
you—eh—know the gentleman if you saw him? 
Hargrave. Know him? He’s my son. 

Doctor. Oh, I’m so sorry. 

Hargrave. What ? 

Doctor. I mean- 

Hargrave. Where’s the Captain? 

Sailor. On the bridge. 

Boatswain. No, in the chartroom. 

Steward. I saw him in the saloon a minute ago. 
Hargrave. I’ll report the whole lot of you. 

Doctor. If you’ll tell me your name, sir, I’ll- 

Hargrave. My name’s Hargrave. 

Stewardess. He is looking for himself. 
Hargrave. (Shouting at them) Hargrave. John 
Hargrave, father of William Hargrave, the finest 
quarter-back that ever played on Transylvania. 
Now, damn it, wherefis the Captain? (He strides off 
with the Doctor r. The Boatswain and the 
Sailor following r.) 

Stewardess. Ach Himmel! It is a dreadful thing 
to have such a man walking around without a chain. 
(Exits c.) 

(Enter Billy, followed by Alice—l.— with various 
rugs, valises, etc.) 

Billy. (Turns to look for AliceJ Come on, 
come on. Don’t take all day. 

Alice. What’s the use of walking around like 
this? Why don’t you ask someone? 

Billy. Because I haven’t seen anyone to ask. 
I should think you could have waited until we 
started. 

Alice. I wanted some place to put my things. 
Billy. Dragging me away to look for your 
darned old stateroom with all the boys down here 
to see me off. 


16 


BILLY 


Alice. Well, you needn’t be so hateful, consider¬ 
ing I’m only going for your sake. 

Billy. I didn’t mean to. Don’t worry now, you’ll 
have a good time. 

Alice. How can I with you? Mother wouldn’t 
have sent me if you had behaved reasonably from 
the beginning instead of acting like a baby with his 
first tooth. 

Billy. Alice! 

Alice. Billy, your sensitiveness will get you into 
trouble, if you don’t look out. Really, you might 
think you were the only man on earth that had 
false teeth. 

Billy. Shut up. 

Alice. No —I won’t—those four teeth have 
nearly driven the family into an early grave, to say 
nothing of the dentists. We’ve been sworn to se¬ 
crecy night and morning. We’ve had to make ex¬ 
cuses to all your friends. We’ve been forbidden to 
mention tooth or teeth, and now, I’ve got to take this 
trip with you, so you can get used to the new set. I 
don’t wonder they call them “Toomstones.” 

Billy. (At rail) Well, what of it? Do you ex¬ 
pect me to be conceited about them? 

Alice. As though anybody cared. 

Billy. That’s up to me. 

Alice. But how can you be so ridiculous ? Lots 
of people wear them. And you got yours in such a 
good cause, too. Why, Transylvania would have 
lost the game if you hadn’t lost your teeth. 

Billy. Alice! 

Alice. I beg your pardon, Billy; I forgot. 

Billy. Not so loud. Do you want the whole ship 
to know about it ? 

Alice. Why not? You ought to be proud of 
them. 

Billy. (Ruefully) Well, I’m not. 

Alice. (Confidentially) Say, Billy- 



BILLY 17 

Billy. (Irritably) Yes, yes; what is it? What 
is it? 

Alice. Do you suppose the man who kicked your 
face for the ball knew where his foot landed? 

Billy. No —of course not. Will you keep quiet ? 

Alice. (After a pause) Did they drop out on the 
ground, Billy? 

Billy. (Doggedly. At rail) I don’t know. 
Maybe I swallowed them. 

Alice. Oh, I hope not, they might give you ap¬ 
pendicitis. 

Billy. (Moves) You give me a pain. 

Alice. (Reflectively) You couldn’t have swal¬ 
lowed four at one time. They were very large, you 
know. (Billy turns away in disgust. Pensively.) 
I wonder if they ever found any of them. Someone 
may be wearing one of them right now for a watch 
charm. You can’t tell—as a memento of the game. 

Billy. I wish you had them—then maybe you’d 
have some sense. 

Alice. Well, if I had, I wouldn’t have made my 
sister a slave to them. 

Billy. (Contemptuously) Yes, you look like a 
slave. (Stands l.c. back to her.) 

Alice. Never mind that, I’ve been one. Didn’t 
I go out with you on the coldest nights before you 
got the new ones, just so you could get exercise? 

Billy. Well, it did you good, you need training. 

Alice. And all because you were afraid someone 
might speak to you. 

Billy. You know perfectly well if they had, I 
couldn’t have answered. 

Alice. Yes, you could. It might have sounded a 
little mushy or as though you were trying to whistle, 
but- 

Billy. Really, Alice, I didn’t think you could be 
so heartless. You seem to forget how painful this 
subject is to me. 


i8 


BILLY 


Alice. (Crossing to him) No, I don’t. I didn’t 
mean to hurt your feelings, Billy, really, I didn’t, 
dear. Really—we’ll bury the teeth— no! I don’t 
mean that. I mean the subject— and you mustn’t 
worry about the new ones any more, because they 
look as natural as life. 

Billy. Well, don’t talk about them as though 
they were a corpse. Do they really look all to the 
good? (Showing teeth.) 

Alice. Great! Fine. 

Billy. No one could tell the difference, could 
they? 

Alice. No, never. Honestly, Billy, they’re an 
improvement on your own. 

Billy. Umph! But no one would know they 
were not the real things? 

Alice. Not unless you open your mouth in the 
sun, then the gold glitters. 

Billy. Oh, go to blazes! (Starting off-) 

Alice. Wait, Billy; you haven’t found the state¬ 
room. 

Billy. I haven’t got any time now. 

Alice. But father and mother won’t know where 
to look for us. 

Billy. Don’t worry; nobody could miss you. 
(Exit c.) 

Alice. Now what have I done? (Enter Mrs. 
Hargrave from stateroom R. She is a woman about 
fifty—rather nervous and excitable with pleasant 
manners and an extreme earnestness in everything 
she says. She is handsomely dressed in furs.) 

Mrs. Hargrave. (Speaking to Stewardess in 
inside) Very well; I’ll just wait out here. 

Alice. Mother! 

Mrs. Hargrave. Alice, my child; where have you 
been? 

Alice. Right here. 


BILLY 


19 

Mrs. Hargrave. But why didn’t you ga tq your 
cabin as I told you? 

Alice. I don’t know where it is. 

Mrs. Hargrave. (Pointing towards room she has 
left) Right here, of course. 

Alice. Where’s father? 

Mrs. Hargrave. I don’t know. I’ve been wait¬ 
ing half an hour for him on the other side. He went 
to look for you and I haven’t seen him since. 
Where’s Billy? 

Alice. I don’t know. He went around the other 
way just a minute ago. 

Mrs. Hargrave. Why didn’t he stay with you? 

Alice. Oh, he got mad because I said the plate 
showed when his mouth was wide open. 

Mrs. Hargrave. Alice, how could you? 

Alice. Well, it does. 

Mrs. Hargrave. But I’ve warned you so many 
times, dear, not to speak about it. 

Alice. He asked me himself. 

Mrs. Hargrave. Even so, you shouldn’t have 
told him. Remember how sensitive he is. 

Alice. Isn’t he ever going to get over it ? 

Mrs. Hargrave. Of course, when he gets ac¬ 
customed to them. But just now, he feels he can’t 
get away from them. 

Alice. It would be worse if they got away from 
him. 

Mrs. Hargrave. Now, Alice dear, you must be 
patient with him. Just think, he is your only brother. 

Alice. I could be so much patienter if I didn’t 
have to go with him. 

Mrs. Hargrave. That is unavoidable. You 
know perfectly well that Billy is not to be trusted 
with anything valuable. And after all he’s gone 
through, he must have someone with him who takes 
an interest in him. (College cry heard outside . En¬ 
ter Mrs. Sloane stateroom C.) 


20 


BILLY 


Mrs. Sloane. What’s the matter ? Someone left 
behind? What’s all that shouting for? Why, Mrs. 
Hargrave! 

Mrs. Hargrave. Why, how do you do, Mrs. 
Sloane ? (The two ladies shake hands cordially.) 

Mrs. Sloane. And Alice too. Well, this is a sur¬ 
prise. I was telling Beatrice just a little while ago 
how sorry I was not to have seen you before we 
sailed. 

Mrs. Hargrave. Oh, are you going down to the 
Indies ? 

Mrs. Sloane. (Gushingly) Yes, I simply can¬ 
not stand these modern winters in New York. I 
suffer so terribly from neuralgia, you know. Sam 
Eustace persuaded me to try this trip for a change. 
(To Alice.) You know Sam! Don’t you, dear? 
('Alice shakes her head.) No! Why he’s a Tran¬ 
sylvania boy. He graduated Billy’s second year, I 
think. You’ll like him so much although he’s so 
terribly in love with Beatrice, he won’t even look at 
another girl. 

Mrs. Hargrave. Really! 

Mrs. Sloane. Yes, indeed. I’m afraid I’ll lose 
her very soon. 

Mrs. Hargrave. Dear me, isn’t it dreadful the 
way our children grow up and go off and leave us 
just when they are beginning to be useful? 

Mrs. Sloane. Why, it’s perfectly awful. What 
are you doing down here? 

Mrs. Hargrave. We-came down to see Alice and 
Billy off. 

Mrs. Sloane. Oh, is he well enough to travel? 

Mrs. Hargrave. Oh, yes, but he’s still very ner¬ 
vous, so Alice is going along to look after him. 

Mrs. Sloane. Why, isn’t that lovely! 

Alice. (Aside) For Billy! 

Mrs. Sloane. I was so terribly upset when I 


BILLY 


21 


heard about his accident. Beatrice was at the game, 
you know, and saw him carried off the field. 

Mrs. Hargrave. You have no idea what a fright¬ 
ful shock it was to me. I haven’t completely recov¬ 
ered from it yet. 

Mrs. Sloane. Poor dear. (Taking Alice into 
the conversation.) Still, he’ll always be a hero in 
the football world. 

Alice. I suppose so, but I think he’d rather have 
his t- ("Mrs. Hargrave coughs .)—health back. 

Mrs. Sloane. Of course. (To Mrs. Hargrave .) 
You know, he and Sam Eustace were hated rivals 
all the summer. Oh, mercy yes. He came down to 
the Cape, you know, after you all went abroad and 
for a time we all thought the affair would end in 
bloodshed. (Seriously.) But tell me—how was he 
so badly hurt? ("Mrs. Hargrave and Alice ex¬ 
change nervous glances.) 

Mrs. Hargrave. (Faltering) Well—you— 

see- 

Alice. (Trying to assist her) He lost his— 
("Mrs. Hargrave steps on her foot.) head- 

Mrs. Hargrave. You can’t dream what he 
suffered. 

Alice. We all did. 

Mrs. Sloane. He was laid up for six weeks, 
wasn’t he? Poor boy, what a dreadful time he must 
have had. 

Alice. Oh, it wasn’t so bad after they pulled 
the— ("Mrs. Hargrave steps on her foot again.) 
splinters out. 

Mrs. Sloane. Splinters! Why, where did he 
get them? 

Alice. (Terribly confused) I don’t know. They 
must have been in the ball. 

Mrs. Sloane. But I don’t understand. 

Mrs. Hargrave. My dear, if Mrs. Sloane will 





22 BILLY 

excuse you, I think you had better look after your 
things. 

Mrs. Sloane. Why, of course. (Enter Sam, c.) 
Oh, Sam, you’re just in time to meet Mrs. Har¬ 
grave. (To Mrs. Hargrave .) Let me introduce 
Mr. Eustace—Mrs. Hargrave—Miss Hargrave- 

Sam. (Shaking hands with both) I am pleased 
to meet you, Mrs. Hargrave. How do you do! 

Mrs. Slfane. We’ve just been talking about 
Billy’s accident. 

Sam. Yes, I heard he was pretty badly smashed 
up. Very unfortunate. 

Mrs. Sloane. It was dreadful. Mrs. Hargrave 
was just telling me about it. 

Sam. What happened to him? 

Alice. (Quickly) He had four— ^Mrs. Har¬ 
grave nudges herj ribs broken. 

Mrs. Hargrave. Come, dear, we must go. (To 
Sam.J So pleased to have met you. (As she hustles 
Alice into stateroom B.) We’ll see you again be¬ 
fore we start, Mrs. Sloane. (She exits and closes 
the door of stateroom B. College cry repeated off.) 

Mrs. Sloane. What are they doing that for? 

Sam. (Sulkily) Oh, it’s only some of the college 
boys acting like idiots over Bill Hargrave. That 
kind of thing makes me tired. 

Mrs. Sloane. It must be very trying on the 
voice. 

Sam. I wouldn’t mind it so much if he really 
deserved it. 

Mrs. Sloane. Well, he had the distinction of 
being more seriously hurt than the rest. 

Sam. I don’t believe it. 

Mrs. Sloane. Why, my dear boy, he was ill for 
almost two months. 

Sam. Yes, I know everybody thought he was. 

Mrs. Sloane. Really, Sam, I didn’t think you’d 



BILLY 


23 

let your feeling against Billy carry you to such 
extremes. 

Sam. Oh, it isn’t that. Mrs. Sloane, I happen to 
know that he was well enough to walk out of the 
house two weeks after he was supposed to be so 
badly hurt, 

Mrs. Sloane. You must be mistaken. 

Sam. I saw him myself. 

Mrs. Sloane. In the street? 

Sam. Yes. 

Mrs. Sloane. Are you sure it wasn’t someone 
else? 

Sam. Perfectly. 

Mrs. Sloane. Where did you meet him? 

Sam. On 5th Avenue, about 40th Street. 

Mrs. Sloane. What did he say to you? 

Sam. Oh, I didn’t speak to him; he didn’t even 
know I saw him. 

Mrs. Sloane. Well, I never! Was he alone? 

Sam. No. 

Mrs. Sloane. Who was with him? 

Sam. I don’t know. I never saw her before. 

Mrs. Sloane. Her! Oh— I suppose it was a 
trained nurse. 

Sam. Perhaps. But this one had evidently come 
from a party. 

Mrs. Sloane. (After a pause) What time was 

it? 

Sam. Half past two—in the morning. 

Mrs. Sloane. Oh! was the person young? 

Sam. Yes. I’m sure she was, though I couldn’t 
see very much of her—she had some sort of a hood 
over her head, and he evidently didn’t want to be 
recognized because he was all muffled up with his 
hat pulled over his eyes. 

Mrs. Sloane. Then how can you be so certain? 

Sam. Oh, I could see enough of his face and I 
heard the girl call him Billy. 


24 


BILLY 


Mrs. Sloane. Anything else ? 

Sam. Yes. They must have been quarreling for 
she said, “This can’t go on forever. If you had one, 
there might have been some chance, but with four, 
they’re bound to find it out.” 

Mrs. Sloane. Dear me! And he’s so young, too. 

Sam. I’m sorry I had to tell you, Mrs. Sloane, 
but perhaps, as he is going to be on board, it’s just 
as well that you should know. 

Mrs. Sloane. You’re quite right. Where is 
Beatrice ? 

Sam. I think she’s around on the other side. 
Shall I tell her you want her? 

Mrs. Sloane. Yes, immediately, please. 

Sam. Certainly. (Exit Sam, whistling jauntily 
c.) 

Mrs. Sloane. Four of them! Mercy on us, 
what a blow to his mother. ('Stewardess appears 
at stateroom C. door , with an inflated rubber 
cushion.) 

Stewardess. Where will you have diss placed? 

Mrs. Sloane. Oh, dear me. Go back. I’ll show 
you. (She exits into stateroom C. and closes the 
door. Enter Billy and Hargrave, Sr., r.J 

Hargrave, Sr. (Speaking as he enters) Where 
the devil were you, then? 

Billy. Round on the other side. 

Hargrave. I’ve been waiting for you down in 
your cabin for an hour. 

Billy. I didn’t know it was downstairs. 

Hargrave. If you hadn’t changed your mind at 
the last minute, you might have had better accommo¬ 
dations. By the way, who was that pretty girl that 
waved her hand to us just now? 

Billy. That? Oh, that was Miss Sloane. 

Hargrave. Which one did she wave to? 

Billy. (Indignantly) Me, of course! 





Billy” See Pape 26 













































* 






4 w- - 




















BILLY 


25 

Hargrave. Oh, I see. Well, I admire your taste. 
Good luck. (He slaps him on the back.) 

Billy. (Clapping his hand to his mouth) Look 
out. 

Hargrave. What’s the matter? 

Billy. You know that’s a dangerous thing to do! 

Hargrave. (Realizing his anxiety) Oh, I for¬ 
got. Those damn t- 

Billy. Good Lord, dad! I wish you’d please 
remember. 

Hargrave. I’m sorry, my boy, I haven’t got used 
to ’em yet. 

Billy. Neither have I. 

Hargrave. I suppose they haven’t taken root 
yet, eh? Never mind. When you come back, you’ll 
feel as though you were born with them. Cheer up, 
now. (Starts to repeat the bus. as Billy steps r. 
out of the way.) 

Billy. Have you got any change about you, that 
you can spare? 

Hargrave. I notice you always ask the question 
after I’ve made a break. What kind of change? 

Billy. Oh, large change. 

Hargrave. (Reaching into his pockets) Those 
four molars of yours will drive me to bankruptcy. 
(Whistle blows off l.) Hello. There’s the last call. 
Where’s your mother and Alice ? 

Billy. I guess they’re in the stateroom. (He 
opens door to stateroom B., and Mrs. Hargrave 
and Alice step out.) 

Hargrave. Come along. We haven’t got any 
time to waste. Say good-bye to Billy. 

Mrs. Hargrave. Oh, must we go now? 

Hargrave. Yes, the bugle’s just blown for visi¬ 
tors ashore. 

Mrs. Hargrave. (Embracing Billy,) Oh, my 
dear boy! I haven’t seen you at all, and there are 
so many things I wanted to tell you. 



26 BILLY 

Hargrave. Never mind. You haven’t got time 
to say ’em now. 

Mrs. Hargrave. (To Billy ) You won’t forget 
to put them in water every night, will you, dear? 

Hargrave. And don’t forget to take ’em out of 
it in the morning. 

Mrs. Hargrave. Oh, no. You can stand the 
glass in your shoe, and you’ll be sure to remember. 

Hargrave. And don’t try to put it on in a hurry. 

Mrs. Hargrave. You had better keep them near 
the bed in case of an emergency. 

Hargrave. That’s a bad place. If he got up 
suddenly, he might step on ’em. 

Mrs. Hargrave. And above all things, don’t hold 
your mouth open and let the air get under the plate. 
('Steward enter $ R.^ 

Steward. (As he crosses the stage) All visitors 
ashore, please. (Exits l.J 

Mrs. Hargrave. Come on, come on. Kiss him 
good-bye. (Kissing Alice. ) Good-bye, my dear. 
Try and have a good time. Good luck, old boy. 
Forget about ’em and they won’t be there. I mean 
you won’t know you’ve got ’em. Come on, Dolly. 

Alice. We’ll go around with you. (She and 
Hargrave start off l.) 

Mrs. Hargrave. The listerine and tincture of 
myrrh and the Gum Tragi can are still in your suit¬ 
case. You won’t forget, Alice? 

Alice. No, mother. (Enter Mrs. Sloane from 
stateroom C.) 

Hargrave. Unless you want to go with them, 
you’d better hurry. 

Mrs. Sloane. You’re off, eh? Good-bye. 

Mrs. Hargrave. Good-bye, Mrs. Sloane. 
(Shakes hands.) Bon voyage. 

Hargrave. How are you, Miss Sloane? Look¬ 
ing fatter than ever. Hope you have a pleasant trip. 
Good-bye. Good-bye. ("Alice and he exit l.) 


BILLY 


n 

Mrs. Hargrave. (To BillyJ You’ll find six 
more tooth brushes and you won’t forget . . . (She 
and Billy follow the others off x.l. as Stewardess 
enters c. The band plays off u, whistles blow — 
Mrs. Sloane clasps her hands to her ears.) 

Stewardess. It is to tell you we are going out 
now. 

Mrs. Sloane. Yes, I know it. I feel the motion 
already. (Voices heard calling “Good-bye” off l.) 

Stewardess. Have you your table seats got yet ? 

Mrs. Sloane. Oh, don’t speak of anything to 
eat! (More “Good-byes” etc., off l.) 

Stewardess. No— dinner will be in a half an 
hour, ready. 

Mrs. Sloane. I can’t bear to think of food- 

Stewardess. No —it is always goat to eat all you 
can before it is too late. I will go und make some 
places for you in de dining hall. (College cry off lJ 
They are shouting someding oud in de Russian 
language! (Exits c. Billyhs voice heard off, re¬ 
peating the cry. Enter Beatrice l. all excitement.) 

Beatrice. We’re off, mother. They’re pulling 
up the gangways. Did you hear the shouting? It 
was a lot of the Transylvania boys. They came 
down to see Billy Hargrave off. Bully of them, 
wasn’t it ? Do you know he’s going with us ? 

Mrs. Sloane. So I heard. 

Beatrice. I haven’t had a chance to speak to 
him yet, he’s been so busy saying good-bye. 

Mrs. Sloane. You can postpone it indefinitely. 

Beatrice. What do you mean? 

Mrs. Sloane. While I have this opportunity, I 
may as well tell you that I want you to have as little 
to do with him as possible. 

Beatrice. Why ? 

Mrs. Sloane. Because I’m the best judge of your 
friends. 

Beatrice. Oh, mother! 


28 


BILLY 


Mrs. Sloane. That will do, Beatrice, you will 
kindly remember what I’ve said. 

Beatrice. But you’ve always liked him. 

Mrs. Sloane. I dare say. 

Beatrice. Then what’s the matter with him 
now? 

Mrs. Sloane. I do not think he is as nice as I 
thought he was before. 

Beatrice. What’s made you change your mind ? 

Mrs. Sloane. He’s a very fast young man, and 
I should never have allowed you to know him. 

Beatrice. Have you heard anything about him? 

Mrs. Sloane. Never mind. 

Beatrice. What was it? 

Mrs. Sloane. Never mind. 

Beatrice. I’ll bet I know who told you. 

Mrs. Sloane. Never mind. 

Beatrice. If I find out I’m right, I’ll make him 
regret it. 

Mrs. Sloane. Never mind that either. You will 
do as I tell you. Of course we shall have to be civil 
to him on account of his mother and sisters, but I 
don’t think young Hargrave is the proper kind of 
young man to be numbered among my daughter’s 
friends. 

Beatrice. What has he done? 

Mrs. Sloane. Never mind. 

Beatrice. Oh, mother. (College cry heard off 
L. a tittle fainter. Beatrice starts off l.) 

Mrs. Sloane. Beatrice, stay here. 

Beatrice. Why ? 

Mrs. Sloane. Never mind. 

Beatrice. Oh, mother. (Enter Billy l. and re¬ 
peating cry, ceasing abruptly as he sees Beatrice.,) 

Billy. Beatrice! I mean, Miss Sloane. (Lifting 
his cap as he rushes across to shake hands.) I’m 
terribly glad to see you. Really, I am. How do 
you do, Mrs. Sloane—this is an unexpected pleasure. 


BILLY 


29 

My, how wonderfully well you look. (To 
Beatrice.,) Doesn’t she ? 

Mrs. Sloane. Thank you. I am as well as I can 
hope to be, William. 

Billy. Eh! Oh, yes, yes. Well, you seem to be 
ten years younger than you were last summer, 
honestly. 

Mrs. Sloane. Appearances are sometimes de¬ 
ceptive. 

Billy. (Smiling at Beatrice,) Yes, sometimes. 
(To Beatrice. ) Were you surprised to see me? 

Beatrice. I should say so. Why didn’t you let 
me know? 

Billy. Didn’t have time. It was only decided at 
the last minute. (Mrs. Sloane coughs. Both turn 
to her.) Really, it’s great to see you again. When 
they first suggested a sea voyage, I expected to be 
bored to death. 

Beatrice. But you have Alice with you. 

Billy. Oh, yes, but she doesn’t mean anything. 
With you on board, though, any trip would be de¬ 
lightful. (Aside to Beatrice.) Did you get my 
last letter? 

Beatrice. Yes. 

Billy. I’m simply crazy to see you alone for a 
minute. Can’t we wish her over to the other side 
of the boat for something? 

Mrs. Sloane. We were very sorry to hear of 
your injury, William. 

Billy. Thank you. (To Beatrice. ) I wish 
she wouldn’t call me that, it makes me feel like a 
waiter. 

Mrs. Sloane. I trust you have completely re¬ 
covered from it? 

Billy. (Leaning against post) Oh, yes, I’m all 
right now, thanks. 

Mrs. Sloane. You look remarkably well for one 
who has been ill so long. 


30 


BILLY 


Billy. I always recuperate very quickly. 

Mrs. Sloane. Still, an injury to the head- I 

think that is what I understood Alice to say ? 

Billy. Eh! Oh, yes, I did. I did them all. 
(Bus. with handkerchief, laughing uneasily.) You 
see, I was really all broken up. 

Mrs. Sloane. How long was it before you were 
able to leave the house, William ? 

Billy. Let me see. I took my first drive about 
a week ago. 

Mrs. Sloane. Your first drive? Just think of 
that! 

Billy. (Aside to Beatrice,) Does the sea al¬ 
ways effect her like this? 

Beatrice. Hush! 

Billy. Let’s play she’s it and go and hide. 
(Aloud) Wouldn’t you like to take a walk; you 
can see the statue on the other side. 

Beatrice. Yes, come along. 

Mrs. Sloane. Beatrice. 

Beatrice. Oh, mother. (Sound of bugle.) 

Billy. I guess that means dinner. Are you go¬ 
ing down, Mrs. Sloane? 

Mrs. Sloane. I suppose I must try a little nour¬ 
ishment. Come, dear, you must get ready. (Exit 
into stateroom C.) 

Billy. (To Beatrice ) Can’t you wait a minute ? 

Beatrice. Why? 

Billy. I want to talk to you. Don’t you realize 
I haven’t seen you for two whole months? 

Beatrice, Well, that isn’t my fault. 

Billy. Nothing in the world could have kept me 
away, if I hadn’t been hurt. 

Beatrice. How foolish! 

Billy. Don’t you believe me? 

Beatrice. I didn’t imagine I controlled the ex¬ 
clusive right to your society. 



BILLY 


3i 

Billy. Why, I wouldn’t cross the street to talk 
to any other girl. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Off) Beatrice! 

Beatrice. Yes? 

Mrs. Sloane. What are you doing? 

Beatrice. Looking at the statue. 

Billy. Don’t say that, it’s on the other side. You 
don’t know what I went through for a while. 

Beatrice. Oh, don’t talk about it. I shall never 
forget it as long as I live. 

Billy. What? 

Beatrice. Seeing you carried away insensible. 
Billy. Did you really care so much? 

Beatrice. Why, of course, I hate accidents. 
Billy. Is that what made you write to me? 
Beatrice. Be careful! 

Billy. Doesn’t she know? 

Beatrice. (Reluctantly) No! 

Billy. Fine! That first letter saved my life! 
Beatrice. I only sent it because I thought it 
might cheer you up. 

Billy. Just for that? 

Beatrice. Yes. 

Billy. How about the rest? 

Mrs. Sloane. (Off) Beatrice! 

Beatrice. Yes, mother. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Off) Remember what I told you. 
Beatrice. What ? 

Mrs. Sloane. You know. 

Beatrice. Oh, mother. 

Billy. Don’t go. She’ll forget it in a minute— 
Did you mean what you said in the last one ? (Clasps 
her hand, holds it up before him.) 

Beatrice. Why, I- 

Mrs. Sloane. (Off) Beatrice! 

Beatrice. Yes. 

Billy. Tell me. 

Mrs. Sloane. Did you hear what I said? 



32 


BILLY 


Beatrice. Yes, mother.—Let me go. 

Billy. Please. 

Mrs. Sloane. Then why don’t you mind me? 

Billy. Just give me a hint. 

Beatrice. I shan’t. 

Billy. I won’t let you go till you do. 

Beatrice. Not now. 

Billy. But-—— 

Mrs. Sloane. (Off) Well? 

Beatrice. Yes, I’m coming. 

Billy. When? 

Beatrice. Oh, later. 

Billy. Promise. 

Beatrice. Yes. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Off) At once, Beatrice. 

Beatrice. Oh, mother. (She exits into stateroom 
C. Mrs. Sloane closes door . Billy turns and sees 
Eustace who has entered c. Slight pause.) 

Sam. Hello, Hargrave. 

Billy. Hello,—what kind of a wave washed you 
on board? 

Sam. I’m going down to Havana on business— 
what are you doing here? 

Billy. I’m going down for my health. 

Sam. You don’t look it. 

Billy. No, I must feel it. 

Sam. I guess you had a pretty soft time of it. 

Billy. Yes, for three weeks things were softer 
than I’ve had ’em since I was a child. I hear you’re 
doing the squire of dames. 

Sam. I have placed my services at the disposal 
of Miss Sloane and her mother, if that’s what you 
mean? 

Billy. Someone will bite you one of these days, 
if you’re not careful. 

Sam. Let me give you a little bit of advice. 

Billy. Sure you can spare it? 

Sam. Your society won’t be missed. 



BILLY 


33 


Billy. Is that so? 

Sam. Your reputation has gone before you, my 
boy. 

Billy. I didn't think it was strong enough to 
walk alone. Have you learned to swim yet? 

Sam. No. 

Billy. I thought that experience last summer 
would teach you a lesson. You’d have been on that 
little island yet if I hadn’t come along. 

Sam. Oh, cut that out, and everything that goes 
with it. 

Billy. Oh, not everything. 

Sam. Yes, everything. 

Billy. But you were not the only survivor. 

Sam. I was the only one we’ll discuss. 

Billy. Don’t be plural. 

Sam. You don’t know what fair play means. 

Billy. (Sharply) That’ll be all right. 

Sam. Do you think it’s square for a fellow to do 
what you did? 

Billy. What did I do? 

Sam. You know well enough. You came down 
to the cape and- 

Billy. Cut you out. 

Sam. I didn’t say that. 

Billy. It’s all right. I’ve saved you the trouble. 
Why, good Lord! You’ve been hanging around her 
all summer until she was almost bored to death. 
Was it my fault if she knew the difference between 
a codfish and a shrimp? 

Sam. What? 

Billy. You heard what I said. 

Sam. Now, look here. You keep off the grass 
or there’ll be trouble. 

Billy. You must think you own the park. I’ll 
tell you right now, I’m going to stick dandelions and 
daisies on the greensward until further notice. 

Sam. We’ll settle that. 



34 


BILLY 


Billy. You bet your life, we will. 

Sam. Without further delay. 

Billy. At the earliest convenience. 

Sam. All right. 

Billy. Just so. (Sam exits slamming door — 
Billy turns l. and runs into Alice, who has en¬ 
tered l. She is very miserable.) Well, what’s the 
matter with you? 

Alice. (Dejectedly) You know it always makes 
me feel badly to leave mother. 

Billy. You look here. Don’t you invent any 
more stories about my accident. You’ve broken 
every bone I’ve got, to say nothing of internal in¬ 
juries. I’m afraid to talk to anyone, for fear I’ll be 
hurt in a new place. Why don’t you stick to one 
thing? 

Alice. Because I forget what I said last. 

Billy. You’ll have me dead and buried if you 
keep on. 

Alice. I can’t help it. I get so confused when 
I’m asked what happened to you. 

Billy. No, I don’t want you hanging ’round here. 
I’m going to propose to Miss Sloane in a few min¬ 
utes and you’d be in the way. 

Alice. To Beatrice? Oh, don’t! You really 
haven’t got a chance. 

Billy. What do you mean? 

Alice. Why, she’s in love with Sam Eustace. 

Billy. (Walks to her) Oh, is that all? 

Alice. Isn’t that enough? They’re almost en¬ 
gaged. 

Billy. You don’t know what you’re talking 
about. She doesn’t care a straw for him. 

Alice. How do you know? 

Billy. She told me so. 

Alice. Well, her mother thinks she does. 

Billy. She’s got another think coming to her. 


BILLY 35 

Go on now. She’ll be back in a minute and I haven’t 
got any time to lose. 

Alice. What’s your hurry? 

Billy. (Faces audience) I’m going to put a 
stop to any further attention from Mr. Sam Eustace, 
or anyone else. 

Alice. Oh, well, are you going to tell her about 
those? (Pointing to his mouth.) 

Billy. No, of course not. 

Alice. Why don’t you? She’ll have to know 
sometime, and it would be a dreadful shock to find 
them in the glass the first morning. Simply spoil the 
whole honeymoon. You’d better tell her. 

Billy. (Turns to her) Look here, Alice, do you 
think a fellow would like a girl that has a wooden 
leg, or a glass eye, or a set of- 

Alice. (Pointing) Those ? 

Billy. Don’t do that- And ask him to marry 

her in the next breath? 

Alice. But she’ll find it out. 

Billy. No, she won’t 

Alice. Don’t be so silly. You can’t leave them 
in at night, you might swallow them. Mother told 
me to be sure and see you take them out before 
you went to bed. I’ll tell her if you like. 

Billy. (Up) Don’t you dare. I wouldn’t have 
her know for a million. 

Alice. It might make a difference to her. You 
can’t tell. 

Billy. (Goes l.c.) Not if she loves me. 

Alice. But the whole expression of your face 
changes when you haven’t got them in, you know. 

Billy. (Goes r. and back to her) I wish I could 
change yours. 

Alice. Besides, it isn’t fair. You’d be marry¬ 
ing under false pretenses. Supposing she woke up 
first some morning and saw you with your mouth 



36 BILLY 

open? You don’t know how awful you look when 
they drop. 

Billy. (Goes c. and leans in rail) If you were 
only a man for five minutes. 

Alice. Oh, of course, you never thank me for 
my advice, but you mark my words—if you deceive 
her, some day she’ll throw them, in your face. They 
might even lead to a divorce and then they’d have 
to come out. 

Billy. If you say another word- (Enter 

Beatrice — sees her and crosses to r.J Oh, Miss 
Sloane, won’t you sit here and let me make you 
comfortable? ('Beatrice sits on chair r. of c. 
Billy picking sofa pillow from sofa.) 

Alice. (Crossing to Billy,) Say—I think you’d 
better- 

Billy. Go away—go away—run away and play. 

Alice. (Starts a little to l. stops) You’d better 
take my advice. 

Billy. (Crossing to her) Mind your own busi¬ 
ness, will you? (Returns to Beatrice;.,) 

Alice. (Going a little further l. then stopping) 
Well, you’ll regret it if you don’t! 

Billy. (Crossing angrily to her) Go away and 
die somewhere. (Returns to Beatrice; and puts pil¬ 
lows behind her back.) 

Alice. Oh, all right—but it’s very unhealthy to 
keep a skeleton in the closet. (T>illy glares at her 
and Alice exits l. quickly.) 

Beatrice. What was she talking about? Was 
it a joke? 

Billy. (Confused) Yes—no, that is, she thinks 
it is. Beatrice. 

Beatrice. Yes ? 

Billy. I’ve had something on the tip of my 
tongue —(Confused) —that I want to tell you. 

Beatrice. Is it a secret? 

Billy. Yes. 


BILLY 3£ 

Beatrice. What an uncomfortable place to hide 
it. (She laughs.) 

Billy. Don’t laugh. I’m serious. (Taking her 
hand.) Beatrice—I’ve admired you immensely for 
years—— Ever since I met you six months ago, 
you’ve been the motive power that worked the ma¬ 
chine, don’t you know? 

Beatrice. Why—Billy—I- 

Billy. Don’t say you’ll be a sister to me. First 
place it’s old, and second place I’ve got one. ( Put¬ 
ting his arms around her) Beatrice, I love you. 

Beatrice. The sailors will see. 

Billy. No, they won’t. The man in the crow’s 
nest is crowing—the lookout’s looking out and the 
Captain’s playing bridge. (Turning her around to 
him.) Beatrice, don’t you like me a little? 

Beatrice. (Glancing at him , and then evasively) 
I like to see you smile, you have such lovely teeth. 
(B illy slowly releases her and looks away from 
her until in front of center door.) 

Billy. Beatrice, before I ask you to make me 
the happiest fellow in the world, there is one thing 
that perhaps I ought to tell you. 

Beatrice. Yes. What is it? 

Billy. Promise me, it won’t let it make any dif¬ 
ference in your feelings toward me. 

Beatrice. (Looking away from him shyly) 
Not if it isn’t too dreadful. 

Billy. It’s simply awful! ('Beatrice turns sur¬ 
prised.) To me, to me. You may not mind it at 
all, you may have some of your own. Have you? 

Beatrice. (Puzzled) Some of my own? 

Billy. No, no. Of course not. I don’t mean 
that. You see it’s a delicate subject and it’s very 
painful to me to speak of it. The fact is—do you 
really think it’s necessary? 

Beatrice. I think after what you said just now 



BILLY 


38 

you ought not to conceal anything that might make 
a difference, if it ever came out. 

Billy. (Looking in the direction Alice has 
gone) She was right. 

Beatrice What ? 

Billy. You’re right. Well—oh, promise me you 
won’t let them come between us. 

Beatrice. (Astonished) Them! Is there more 
than one? 

Billy. (Hopelessly) There are four! 

Beatrice. (Turning away, gently shocked) Oh, 
Billy! 

Billy. You— you see— I had—that is the way 

I’ve got- (At this moment the Steward enters c. 

the swinging doors striking Billy on the hack, and 
throwing him forward a little on his hands.) 

Steward. (Apologetically) Beg pardon, sir. 
("Steward crosses around in front of Billy and 
exits l. Beatrice does not turn at all during this 
business, which must be done very rapidly. Billy, 
as soon as he strikes the stage, claps his left hand 
over his mouth with an agonized look on his face.) 

Beatrice. Yes—go on. What were you going to 
tell me? I’m waiting. Oh, I see, you’ve changed 
your mind. Please don’t trouble yourself to deny it. 
I dare say you knew what you were going to tell me 
would put an end to everything between us, and you 
are very wise to keep your mouth shut. (During 
these speeches, Billy has hand always over mouth, 
looks between his legs and around stage L. with his 
eyes, then turns and looks about r. Can't see his 
teeth, crosses to where Beatrice is standing and 
tries to see under her dress, thinking they may have 
rolled there. As he can't see them, he bumps against 
her lightly, which moves her. At the same moment 
their eyes meet and with a look of agony, Billy 
rushes off c. as the curtain descends.) 

CURTAIN 



ACT II 


At Rise : Beatrice discovered in tears, with Mrs. 
Sloane very much excited, walking up and 
down in front of her. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Pausing before her) You see, 
this all comes of disobedience. Didn’t I warn you 
not to have anything to do with him? 

Beatrice. ( T earfully) Yes. 

Mrs. Sloane. And the moment my face is turned 
you fly in the back of it. You thought you knew 
more about it than I did. It’s always the way. 
If I were to swear that black was white, you’d say 
it wasn’t. (She walks away r. and comes back 
again.) Why didn’t he come to me ? I’m the proper 
person to confide such things to. How dare he take 
advantage of your innocence? 

Beatrice. Perhaps he thought you were inno¬ 
cent too. 

Mrs. Sloane. He ought to know better. That 
hasn’t got anything to do with it. What else did he 
say to you? 

Beatrice. (Sobbing) He told me there were 
four of them. 

Mrs. Sloane. Good heavens. I didn’t think he 
was capable of such a thing. 

Beatrice. Well, he is, and he can’t give them up. 

Mrs. Sloane. Why not? Surely, he isn’t tied 
to them for life. What happened after that? 

Beatrice. Nothing. He started to explain, but 
he stopped. I suppose he was too much ashamed to 
go any further. 


39 


40 


BILLY 


Mrs. Sloane. It seems to me that was far 
enough. The idea. Then what did you do? 

Beatrice. I told him I didn’t want to hear any 
more, and that there never could be anything be¬ 
tween us but- 

Mrs. Sloane. Those four—ahem! Go on! ^ 

Beatrice. That’s all. He rushed downstairs 
looking as though he was going to choke to death. 

Mrs. Sloane. I hope he did. 

Beatrice. Oh, mother! (Resumes her weeping.) 

Mrs. Sloane. Don’t “Oh, mother” me. It’s all 
your own fault. He would never have had a chance 
to confide his piccadillies, I mean peccadilloes, to 
you, if you had taken his advice. You ought to be 
ashamed of yourself. It’s simply disgraceful—ab¬ 
solutely outrageous—I never—Who am I, anyway, 
that’s what I’d like to know ? (She folds her arms 

as though defying someone to tell her and gazes 
sternly out to sea. Enter Alice quickly l. She 
stops suddenly at sight of picture.) 

Alice. (Aside) Oh, he must have told her about 
them and it’s all off. (Aloud.) Why, what’s the 
matter, Beatrice? What’s happened? 

Mrs. Sloane. (Indignantly) Your brother- 

Alice. (Pleasantly) Yes, he told me he was 
going to. I suppose you were very much surprised. 

Mrs. Sloane. I shall never recover from the 
shock. 

Beatrice. (Sobbing) Neither will I. 

Alice. Oh, yes you will. You’ll soon get used 
to them. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Bursting into rage) What? 

Beatrice. (Surprised and indignant) I never 
was so insulted in all my life. 

Alice. Oh, pshaw! You mustn’t mind a little 
thing like that! 

Mrs. Sloane. A little thing, a little thing! 


BILLY 


4* 

Listen to that, and I thought she was such a nice 
girl. 

Beatrice. How can you talk about it like that? 

Alice. Why, you don’t have to see them if you 
don’t want to. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Advancing to her, as she nervous¬ 
ly hacks away) See them ? Did I understand you to 
say, “See them”? Miss Hargrave, do you think I 

would allow my daughter to associate- See them! 

Good heavens, what is the world coming to? 

Alice. (Resentfully) Not to its senses, that’s 
certain. (Appealing) Look here, Beatrice—you’re 
not going to break my brother’s heart for a mere 
trifle like that, are you? There’s no danger of in¬ 
heritance, you know. 

Mrs. Sloane. If you call your brother’s past life 
a trifle, Miss Hargrave, you evidently don’t know 
much about it. 

Alice. I don’t understand. What have you got 
to do with his past life? 

Mrs. Sloane. Come, my dear, I can’t allow you 
to discuss the subject any further. 

Alice. Won’t you tell me what he said ? 

Beatrice. He only started- 

Mrs. Sloane. She couldn’t permit him to finish. 

Alice. (To Beatrice) Then you don’t know 
anything about—? 

Beatrice. No, and I don’t want to. I never want 
to see him again. 

Alice. But, Beatrice- 

Mrs. Sloane. Excuse me, Miss Hargrave. Mr. 
Eustace is waiting to take Beatrice to dinner. Come, 
dear. (They exit frigidly into stateroom C.) 

Alice. But wait a minute, Beatrice. I want to 
speak to you. You don’t understand. (They shut 
the door in her face . She does not understand — 
turns, puzzled.) Past life! I wonder what else 


42 


BILLY 


Billy’s concealing besides his teeth. (As she txits it.) 
I must find him and make him tell me. 

(After a slight pause, the Boatswain enters L., carry¬ 
ing shuffle-board, dice and sticks . Immediately 
after, the Sailor enters r., from the other side, 
carrying a chair and some camp stools.) 

Sailor. Which is C? It’s to have this special 
stronge one. 

Boatswain. Party with a deck and a broad 
bilge? 

Sailor. Sounds like it. 

Boatswain. (Pointing to Mrs. Sloane’s door) 
Over ’ere. (The Sailor places the chair while the 
Boatswain gathers up a coil of rope out of which 
fall the teeth. He picks them up wonderingly as 
the Sailor turns.) 

Sailor. What’s that ? 

Boatswain. I dunno. Looks like some kind of a 
charm. 

Sailor. ’Tain’t ’ardly reg’lar enough for a orna¬ 
ment. 

Boatswain. (After holding it arms’ length) 
Why, it’s teeth. 

Sailor. Human teeth? 

Boatswain. Certainly. False human teeth. 

Sailor. ’Ow did you know they ’ere ? 

Boatswain. Must ’ave been dropped. 

Sailor. Who dropped ’em? 

Boatswain. That’s the question. 

Sailor. P’r’aps somebody thro wed ’em away. 

Boatswain. (Pityingly) You can’t ’elp it, I 
suppose. You don’t see it often enough to know it 
well—but that is gold. 

Sailor. Real gold ? 

Boatswain. All the way from ten to eighteen 
karats. 


BILLY 


43 


Sailor. What’s vegetables got to do with it? 

Boatswain. Wait for a reward. 

Sailor. Maybe they won’t offer any. 

Boatswain. You don’t know the real value of an 
article like this. I’ll tell you. One time I ’ad a rich 
uncle who owned a set of those things, only ’is was 
more complete-like, ’avin’ teeth o’ various sizes all 
around the edge. Well, one day he lost ’em while he 
was bathin’ in the sea. Slowed if he didn’t offer a 
quid to any one of us kids that would bring ’em 
up for ’im, and we arf drownded ourselves divin’ 
after ’em. (Moving toward exit.) Now if this is 
an old party, which most likely it is, there’s no tellin* 
what he may be willin’ to give to get it back. 

Sailor. (Following him) Whatever it is, I’m 
satisfied. 

Boatswain. How do you make that out? 

Sailor. Well, of course, it’s my duty to report 
the find to the purser, but I’m ready to listen to 
reason if- 

Boatswain. I wouldn’t ’ave your greedy dispo¬ 
sition if it came in a prize packet with the crown of 
jewels. (They exit L.) 

(Slight pause, then enter Billy from center. He 
wears a long overcoat with the collar turned up 
about his ears, and under that a white sweater 
pulled up so that it covers his mouth. He looks 
hurriedly to r. and l., then begins searching on 
stage, just r. of c. opening. Enter Alice quick¬ 
ly from u) 

Alice. Say, Billy, what have you done to Bea¬ 
trice? She says she’ll never speak to you again be¬ 
cause you’ve got a past life. Where did you get it, 
Billy? (He pays no attention to her.) And Mrs. 
Sloane, too—they’re in an awful state. You must 
have said something terrible. (Watching his move - 


BILLY 


44 

merits.) What are you doing that for? Is it a 
game ? Why are you all muffled up that way ? Have 
you got a chill? What are you looking for? 

Billy. (Facing her and pulling the sweater from 
his mouth) Theeth! 

Alice. (Smothering a scream) Good heavens, 
where are they ? 

Billy. (Turns away from her and again looking 
rJ I don’t know. 

Alice. What! 

Billy. (Turning to her angrily) Don’t yell like 
that, and go down thairth and get me the other thet, 
quick! 

Alice. What other set? 

Bill. The extra thet, the theat you packed. 

Alice. Say, Billy, do you have to talk like that? 

Billy. (Turning r. again) Well, I won’t when 
you get me the other thet. 

Alice. But I didn’t pack any other set. 

Billy. What! You didn’t? 

Alice. Why, no! 

Billy. (Coming slowly toward her) But Mother 
gave them to you to take care of. 

Alice. Oh, yes, I remember. 

Billy. And you forgot to bring them? 

Alice. (Tearfully) Yes, Billy—I’m awfully 
sorry, but Mother gave me so many things to take 
care of. 

Billy. (Shaking her) Sthop crying—and help 
me to look for thith thet then. (He starts to ex¬ 
treme r. of stage. Alice goes to r. of center open¬ 
ing and they search among the chairs, etc. During 
the subsequent lines, coming together gradually.) 

Alice. How could you be so careless ? You know 
I told you you ought to use glue or- 

Billy. Or nailth, or therewth, or riveth the I 
thuppothe. Thut up and look. 


BILLY 45 

Alice. Do you suppose the wind carried them to 
the other side of the ship ? 

Billy. Do you believe in fairieth? 

Alice. Then you ought to tie a piece of string to 
them until you’re sure of them. How did they get 
away from you? Did you cough them out? 

Billy. No. A bally idiot bumped into me and 
they flew. 

Alice. (Terrified) Not towards the sea? 

Billy. (Pointing l.) No, I think it wath over 
thith thide. 

(Alice crosses to extreme l. Billy to l. of c. 
opening and business of search is duplicated as 
on the other side during subsequent speeches.) 

Alice. Oh. You know Grandma used to lose 
hers every time she sneezed, and we had to hunt for 
them, don’t you remember? 

Billy. Yeth, she alwayth gave me fifty thenth 
every time I found ’em. I’d give fifth dollarth to 
find mine. 

Alice. Are you sure it was on this side? You 
know you never know where you put anything. 

Billy. Do you think I’m playing hide and theek 
with ’em? Maybe they’re hanging to thomething. 
Look under that book. 

Alice. (Shaking the leaves of the book) No, 
they’re not there. Oh, there they are. 

Billy. Where ? 

Alice. (Kneeling beside chair) Down here. I 
see the gold. (Picks up from extreme l. a brass 
ring. Billy looks at it in disgust and turns away 
c.) Oh, no; it isn’t. Looks something like a baby’s 
teething ring, doesn’t it? 

Billy. (Turning on her furiously and baring his 
teeth) Alith! 

Alice. (Startled) Oh, Billy, you have so changed. 


BILLY 


46 

(Billy claps his hand over his mouth.) Don't you 
think you’d better go down to your cabin for a little 
while? 

Billy. I won’t leave thith thpot until I find them. 
(Crosses r., looking around.) They muth be sthom- 
where, and thomeone elthe might thstep on them. 
Thereth only one perthon I really care about and 

thath Beatrith- (He pauses, horrified.) Bea- 

trith! ( Crosses slowly to c., Alice doing the same, 
meeting him there.) Lithen to that, I can’t they it. 

Alice. Then why don’t you go to her and ex¬ 
plain. Tell her—you’ve mislaid them. 

Billy. How can I thpeak to her when I can’t 
thay her name! 

Alice. (With sudden inspiration ) Call her Miss 
Sloane? 

Billy. Thatth a good idea! Thatth it! Mitth 
Thl- I can’t thay that either. 

Alice. But she thinks you’ve done something 
awful. You’ll lose her if you don’t say something. 

Billy. I’ll loothe her if I do. Where ithe thhe 
now? 

Alice. Gone down to dinner with that Sam Eus¬ 
tace. I suppose he’ll get her now that you’re speech¬ 
less. Mrs. Sloane will attend to that just to spite 
you. (Billy looks desperate.) Oh, Billy, I’m so 
sorry for you. I really am—I- 

Billy. You ought to be athamed of yourthelf, 
Alith. Thee, I can’t thay your name either. (He 
throws himself in chair r. in disgust.) 

Alice. ( Crossing to him ) Then the only thing 
for you to do is to stay in your cabin and say you’re 
seasick, and I’ll pick out all the soft things on the 
bill of fare and bring them to you myself. (She 
turns l.cJ 

Billy. And let Beatrith get engaged to that fel¬ 
low Tham Euthtathe—not on your life! (Rising 
and going to Alice.) Thith ith all your fault. If 



BILLY 


47 

you don't want to ruin my entire exithenthe, you’ll 
find thomething to fill thith up. (Pointing to his 
mouth.) That fellow Euthathe ith an ath, and he 
thant have Beatrith, if I have to think the thip. 

Alice. Sink, Billy. 

Billy. (Trying hard) Think the- 

Alice. Sink. 

Billy. Think the- Oh! ( Gives it up in dis¬ 

gust, strides r., and back to Alice.) 

Alice. (Sympathetically) Never mind, Billy. I 
know what you mean. But what can I do? I 
haven’t got a thing that looks like teeth. 

Billy. You haven’t got a thing that lookth like 
brainth. Can’t you go and see if thereth a dentitht 
on board? 

Alice. Yes, of course. Do you think he’ll have 
any your size? 

Billy. Any thize ith better than thith thpathe. 

Alice. (Joyfully) And we can send a wireless 
to Mother for the other set. 

Billy. Thath tho. If thhe thendth them by the 
Theaboard expreth they’ll be in Havana almoth ath 
thoon ath we are. 

Alice. And you can write a note to Beatrice ask¬ 
ing her not to sentence you before you get there, 
when you will explain everything. 

Billy. Thplendid! Oh, if it had been anyone but 
me, what muth thhe think of me! 

Alice. Was she here when they left you? 

Billy. Yeth. 

Alice. Then perhaps she found them. Shall I 
ask her? 

Billy. (In terror of the thought) No, good 
Lord! (Alice stops.) I wonder if thhe did. 

Alice. She might have. 

Billy. (Nervously) Jutht find out, but don’t 
thay anything about it. 



48 BILLY 

Alice. But, Billy—how can I find out if I don’t 
thay anything about it. 

Billy. (Pushing her off c.) Look in her room. 
Thearth her trunk. Feel in her pocketh. Only don’t 
tell her what you’re looking for. 

Alice. But, Billy, she may be in her cabin. 

Billy. Go and thee about the Dr . . . Thith 
thuthpenthe ith thimply inthupportable. 

Alice. Oh, Billy! (He moves her off c. and then 
turns front in despair.) 

Billy. Beatri—Beatrith- I can’t thay it. I 

can’t thay it. (He energetically renews search for 
teeth l.c. on knees. The Stewardess enters c. with 
steamer rug and pillow. She stops, interested in his 
actions.) 

Stewardess. You are looking for something— 
yes? (Billy nods his head. After a slight pause) 
You have found it not yet? (Billy shakes his 
head.) Did you drop it, or did it roll away ? 

Billy. It flew. 

Stewardess. Vid vings ? 

Billy. No. Go away. Don’t bother me. 

Stewardess. (Politely) Oh, it is no bother. Did 
you look in the sea yet? 

Billy. What ? 

Stewardess. (Embarrassed at her blunder) Oh, 
what I mean, iss it here on de boards or iss it dere 
in de vater? 

Billy. How can I tell? 

Stewardess. Maybe if you let me know vas iss 
it I could help you find it. 

Billy. (Quickly) No, ith no uthe, I’ve theathed 
all over the plathe. 

Stewardess. (Inquiringly) Vat ist? 

Billy. I thay the thhantheth are it thpilled into 
the thea. 

Stewardess. (Doubtfully) Sprechen sie Deutsch? 



BILLY 


49 

Billy. No. You’re the thhuped, you’re harm- 
leth. (He throws himself dejectedly into chair.) 

Stewardess. (Much bewildered) You ain’t feel- 
in’ good, maybe, already, vat ? 

Billy. (Groaning in disgust) You’d thoon 
make thomebody thick! 

Stewardess. (Listening attentively) Um? 

Billy. I thay, you make me thick. 

Stewardess. (Puzzled) Dot is queer—you 
speak like your tongue vas ticklish. 

Billy. Don’t get fresh or you’ll be thorry for it. 

Stewardess. (Disappointed , shaking her head 
and then appealing) Vonce again, please. 

Billy. (Taking her by the hand) Thee here, 
can I trutht you with a thecret? 

Stewardess. (After a little pause , pretending she 
has understood) I would like to, but I don’t know 
how. 

Billy. (Annoyed) Don’t you know what a 
thecret ith ? It’th something you muth not whithper 
to a thingle thoul. 

Stewardess. Vy don’t you sneeze—it might 
make you feel better. 

Billy. (Leaving her in disgust) Oh, thhaw. 
You haven’t got any thenthe. 

Stewardess. (Following him sympathetically) 
Really, I feel a sadness for you. Vould you like a 
lemon ? 

Billy. I don’t need one while you’re here. 

Stewardess. (Relieved) Vy don’t you speak 
like dot always, instead of talking dot broken lan- 
vidge ? 

Billy. (Furiously) You’ll exathperate me be¬ 
yond endurance in a second. 

Stewardess. (Discouraged) There he goes 
again. 

Billy. (Taking her by the wrist) Lithen! I’ve 
thuffered a very theriouth loth. Do you underthand? 


BILLY 


50 

(She smiles at him uncomprehendingly.) Do you? 
(She nods her head nervously. He continues bit¬ 
terly) If you had brainth, inthead of thauerkraut 
under your hair you’d have notithed ath thoon ath 
you thaw me what wath mithing, but let that path. 
Now I want your athithance, thee ? If any one ninth 
acroth thomething, thend word to me, and let me 
know if you thee any thuthpithiouth actionth 
amongth the pathengerth. If you can trath it, I 
athure you no expenthe will be spared in compen- 
thation. It ith a cathe of think or thwim, and the 
perthon who rethtoreth my lotht treasure will re- 
joithe, ath thure ath thootin’. Understand that? 

Stewardee. Oh, yes, you vill soon get used to 
de motion, and then you vill be playing skittles— 
(He leaves her in disgust, and then turns rathfully.) 

Billy. Oh— I have no pathienthe with you. 

Stewardess. (Greatly distressed) If you would 
say it in English vonce. (Exit c.) 

Billy. Beatri—Beatrith— I can’t thay it, I can’t 
thay it. (Mrs. Sloane suddenly bounces out of her 
cabin and panic stricken, he tries to fly.) 

Mrs. Sloane. Oh, it’s you, is it? That’s right, 
add cowardice to your other faults and run away 
from me. ("Billy stops and pulls his coat collar and 
sweater up around his face.) I don’t wonder you 
try to hide your face, you know its expression 
would not betray your falseness. I always thought 
you had a deceitful mouth. Don’t attempt to deny 
what you’ve done. Nothing you could say now 
would be of any use. ("Billy winces uncomfort¬ 
ably.) No, I don’t want to hear a word. You have 
outraged a mother’s feelings beyond forgiveness. 
There is no hope of recovering what you have lost. 
Don’t try to grit your teeth at me. You opened a 
dark secret to that young girl which can never be 
closed, never, never! I should think you would 
rather have bitten your tongue out than said 9uch 


BILLY 


5* 

things. How dare you intrude your illicit confi¬ 
dences upon my daughter! What right have you 
to ask her to accept your artificial affections ? Don’t 
open your lips, it would only make matters worse, 
fB illy puts his hand on his mouth.) That’s right, 
bite your nails. It’s only another evidence of weak¬ 
ness. Oh, I dare say you’ve got some story ready, 
and explanation of what you don’t intend, some 
hypocritical excuse, but I won’t listen to it, I tell 
you. If you were to speak to me now, I would 
scream, I would scream! (Enter Sam from r. so that 
Billy is between them and therefore there is no 
escape for him. When he sees Sam he bows his 
head and sinks his head as far possible into his 
sweater, which gives him a very hang-dog ap¬ 
pearance.) 

Sam. (To Mrs. SloaneJ Oh, there you are, 
Mrs. Sloane. I’ve been trying to find you. Am I 
intruding ? 

Mrs. Sloane. No, you have just come in time to 
witness my last word to this young man. 

Sam. Oh, I’d like a word with you, Hargrave. 
(He waits for Billy to answer, and then continues 
speaking cautiously.) I regret to hear that you have 
deeply offended Miss Sloane. 

Mrs. Sloane. Insulted. 

Sam. Oh, was it? Insulted Miss Sloane. (An¬ 
other slight pause, but Billy doesn’t answer. With 
a little more confidence.) Well, what are you going 
to do about it? ( Billy remains silent.) Come, 
come, this won’t do, you know. Now what have 
you to say for yourself? (Billy glares at him.) 
I mean, are you going to apologize? ("Billy re¬ 
lapses in the same rejected attitude. Sam taking 
advantage of his inaction grows courageous.) Now 
see here, Hargrave, Mrs. Sloane and her daughter 
are traveling under my protection. You hear? My 
protection, and therefore, anyone who annoys them 


BILLY 


52 

is answerable to me. Do you understand that? 
/Billy writhes and Sam's valor increases.) I de¬ 
mand an explanation of your conduct, sir. Now, 
at once. Speak, man—speak. 

Mrs. Sloane. He knows there’s nothing he could 
say that would mean anything. 

Sam. (With rising anger) I hope you won’t 
force me to make an example of you before a lady. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Slightly alarmed at Sam's tone) 
Never mind. He’ll regret it later. 

Sam. Excuse me, Mrs. Sloane, I will not permit 
this insolence. He must give me satisfaction. 

Mrs. Sloane. Not now. It might make a scene. 

Sam. You young cad, you! If you were alone, 
I’d thrash you within an inch of your life. 

Mrs. Sloane. Oh, Sam, I’d rather you didn’t. 

Sam. (Trying to suppress his wrath) Please 
leave us for a few minutes, Mrs. Sloane. 

Mrs. Sloane. Oh, no, not now. 

Sam. You’re a coward, that’s what you are. 
(Billy is almost dancing with impotent rage.) Why, 
you haven’t got the courage to open your mouth. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Pulling him away) Please don’t 
Sam. I don’t want you to hurt him. 

Sam. (By this time quite uncontrollable) A 
rank coward. I throw it in your teeth. Look at 
him, he’s actually white with fear. He hasn’t got 
enough nerve to stand up. 

Mrs. Sloane. Don’t talk so loud, Sam, you’ll at¬ 
tract attention. 

Sam. Why don’t you call me something? Be¬ 
cause you’re afraid to. 

Mrs. Sloane. There’ll be a scandal if you’re not 
careful. Come along. 

Sam. The only thing that’s saved you this trip 
is this lady’s presence, but the next time, look out. 
(^Mrs. Sloane is pulling him off backwards.) I 
warn you now, keep out of my way. I’ll make 


BILLY S3 

you— (He trips over a stool as Mrs. Sloane drags 
him off l. Billy looks after them.) 

Billy. They’ll thend you home in a pill box when 
I get through with you. Jutht wait until I can 
talk straight again and I’ll threathh you theme of 
the English language that you overlooked at thchool 
- (Enter Steward r. with a blank in his hand.) 

Steward. Beg pardon, sir, but the operator 
would like to know if this message is correct. 

Billy. What meththage? 

Steward. The one the young lady handed in a 
little while ago, sir! 

Billy. Of courthe it ith- 

Steward. He thought perhaps there was a mis¬ 
take in a word, sir! 

Billy. What word ? 

Steward. Tombstones, sir! 

Billy. Tombstonth? 

Steward. Yes, sir! The message reads like this, 
sir! “Send Billy’s tombstones to Havana. Quick. 
His future happiness depends upon them.” 

Billy. Well, what of it? 

Steward. Nothing, sir! Only it’s rather unusual 
having more than one tombstone. 

Billy. Ith it? Well, thath my buthineth. 

Steward. Oh, I see. Well, of course he didn’t 
know you were in that line, sir. 

Billy. Line? What line? 

Steward. The gravestone line, sir. 

Billy. (Desperately) Go. Tell him to thend 
it jutht ath it ith, and not to thtick hith nothe in 
other peoplthe affairth or it’th liable to get pinthed. 

Steward. Yes, sir. Dear me! You have got a 
cold, sir. Did you ever try cammomile tea for in¬ 
fluenza, sir? It will clear your head in no time, sir. 

Billy. (Furiously) I’ll knock yourth off if you 
thand there muth longer. 



54 BILLY 

Steward. Yes, sir, much obliged, sir. (He exits 

JL.) 

Billy. (Alone) My heart would break !f I had 
time to think of it. (Enter Doctor.,) 

Doctor. Oh, Mr. HargTave. What! Under the 
weather so soon? 

Billy. (In muffled tone) Go away. 

Doctor. Come, come, you mustn’t mind me. 

Billy. (As before) Go away. 

Doctor. (Laughing) Why you’re as sensitive 
as the nerve of an eye tooth. Now then, tell me 
what’s the matter? 

Billy. Thea thickneth. 

Doctor. (Puzzled) What are you eating? 

Billy. Nothing. I can’t eat. 

Doctor. Strange, strange, you talk as though 
your mouth was full. 

Billy. Well it ithn’t, it’th empty. I tell you 
I’m thea thick. 

Doctor. Nonsense. The sea’s like a lake. (He 
feels Billy’s pulse. Looks at watch.) 

Billy. (Woefully) I’ve lotht everything. 

Doctor. What! In this calm? That’s peculiar. 
Well, there’s no fever. Come now open your mouth 
and let’s have a look at the tongue. 

Billy. Go away from me. Go away from me. 
I don’t want a doctor, and I wouldn’t have you for 
a thick cat. You’re driving me crathy, and I won’t 
be rethponthi—rethonthible for my actionth. 

Doctor. ( Surprised and nervously backing away 
from him) Mr. Hargrave, I’m not used to such 
treatment. 

Billy. If you don’t want to go to Heaven by the 
deep thea route, leave me alone. 

Doctor. But, Mr. Hargrave- 

Billy. Get out of my thight or I'll thwab the 
deck with you. 

Doctor. (As he flies off l.) Good gracious.! 


BILLY 


55 

Where’s the captain? (Enter Alice hurriedly, c.) 
Billy. (Hopefully) Well? 

Alice. There’s nothing but a horse doctor on 

board. 

Billy. (Dejectedly) Of courthe not. 

Alice. I asked him if he knew anything about 
dentistry, but- 

Billy. Never mind that. We’ll have to find 
thome other way. Now look here, what did Beatrith 
and Mrthth Thlone thay to you bouth me? 

Alice. That you had a past life. 

Billy. You thaid that before. What elthe? 
Alice. And that you had insulted her. 

Billy. But I didn’t. 

Alice. Well, what did you do? 

Billy. I tharted to take your advithe and tell her 
about—theethe, and juth ath I thaid I had four of 
’em that damn fool opened the door and I lotht ’em. 
Alice. Yes, but you didn’t say four what? 
Billy. Thupposing I didn’t, thatth no reathon 
why Mitheth Thlone though talk about dark 
thecreath and accuthe me of having illithit con- 
fidentheth. 

Alice. Yes, it is. 

Billy. (Indignantly) How ith it? 

Alice. Because she thinks you are talking about 

her- 

Billy. What ? 

Alice. Past lives. Why didn’t you say it right 
out instead of counting them up first? 

Billy. Becauthe I didn’t want to dethieve her. 
Alice. I suppose you thuttered and thtam—look 
at that, you make me do it too. 

Billy. (Earnestly) Do you mean to thay that 
Beatr—thhe really thinkth I wath going to confeth 
thome dithgrathful thircumthanthe in my career, to 
her above all otherth? 

Alice. Yes, I’m sure she does. 


56 BILLY 

Billy. (Peevishly) Then why don’t you tell her 
if it ithn’t so? 

Alice. Do you think she’d believe me after the 
way you’ve behaved ? I’ll tell her what’s the matter 
with you if you like. 

Billy. (Sharply) No. 

Alice. It’s the only way to settle it. 

Billy. I can’t—it wath bad enough when I had 
’em. I could never look her in the fathe without 
them. 

Alice. All right, but just remember, I warned 
you. 

Billy. (Throwing himself forlornly into a chair) 
Oh, thut up—have you theen her? 

Alice. Yes. She’s around on the other side 
with Sam Eustace, and by the time he gets through 
telling her about the scrapes you’ve been in she 
wouldn’t have you if you had a double set of teeth. 

Billy. (Rising) What do you mean ? Wh’th ha 
thaying? How do you know? 

Alice. I was in the saloon and they were sitting 
under the window. 

Billy. Go on. 

Alice. And the first of all I heard him tell her 
was that you couldn’t be trusted with the reputation 
of a saint. 

Billy. The thwine. 

Alice. And then he said you fell in love with 
every girl you met and you didn’t meet many nice 
ones. 

Billy. The low down thneak. 

Alice. And at College, the fellows called you, 
“The Turkish Delight.” 

Billy. The- (The rest is inarticulate.) 

Alice. And he told her about a quartet that came 
to the Opera House with some show. 

Billy. Whatf 

Alice. I think he called them The Four Frivolous 






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mrnmm\ 


VMzZfW- 


>ASsi : 































BILLY 57 

Floras. He said you were crazy about them and 
traveled with the company for almost a week. 

Billy. He told her that, did he? 

Alice. Yes and more. 

Billy. I’ll make him thwallow every word on 
hith kneeth. (He starts off c., but Alice grabs him.) 

Alice. Billy, don’t be so foolish, you can’t talk 
to him like that. 

Billy. I forgot. Oh, Alith, if you have any 
regard for your brotherth peathe of mind, help him 
to replathe his teethe. 

Alice. Billy, you know I’d do anything in the 
world for you if I- 

Billy. Don’t thay any more, but keep thtill and 
let me think. (With earnest conviction.) There 
mutht be otherth. (Alice nods her head.) Thith 
ith a large ship. 

Alice. (Anxiously) Yes, it is. 

Billy. (With decision) Thee here, go and thee 
if any of the pathengeth have got a thet of faith 
teeth they’ll rent until we get to Havana. 

Alice. But Billy, how can I tell which have and 
which haven’t? 

Billy. Thay you’ve made a bet on hith age and 
look in their mouth. 

Alice. (Indignantly) Billy! 

Billy. Go and get ’em, I need them more than 
they do. 

Alice. But Billy, suppose they haven’t got the 
right number of teeth? 

Billy. Oh, we’ll knock the restht of ’em off. 
(Turning on her furiously.) You’ve got to get ’em 
if you have to thteal ’em. 

Alice. (Speaking very rapidly and walking off) 
Well, I’ll do the best I can, but it’s a very hard thing 
for a girl to approach a perfect stranger and offer 
to rent their false teeth. (Exits r.) 

Billy. (Alone) I’d give a farm to toy with the 


BILLY 


58 

man that made me a toothleth thpeethleth infant 

Bea—Beatrith- (Almost in tears.) I can’t thay 

it. I can’t thay it. (The Captain enters from 
center door and goes quickly l. without seeing Billy, 
who suddenly turns and sees him and rushes after 
him calling.) Captain, Captain. (The Captain 
stops and turns.) You’ve got to go back for an hour. 

Captain. Ha, ha, ha. 

Billy. Don’t laugh. I’m in eameth. I’ve left 
thomething behind that I can’t live without. 

Captain. Is that so? Well, I guess you’ll last 
a few days longer. 

Billy. Oh, don’t get tharcathtic. Thith ith a 
matter of life and death. You’ve got to put back 
to port and let me off. 

Captain. You may be able to run a football 
team, Mr. Hargrave, but you can’t run my ship. 

Billy. I’m willing to pay extra for your trouble. 

Captain. (Sternly) No, sir. It’s out of the 
question. 

Billy. (Desperately) How much ith the old tub 
worth? I’ll buy it from you. 

Captain. (Turning away l. contemptuously) 
Pshaw! 

Billy. If you don’t do what I ask you to do, I’ll 
have you reported for discourtethy. Can’t you thee 
I’m dethpreth ? 

Captain. (Severly) No, Mr. Hargrave, you’re 
drunk. I can tell it by the way you talk. (He starts 
Off L.J 

Billy. (Stopping him and turning him around) 
You’re an ath. 

Captain. What? 

Billy. I’m a thick man. 

Captain. What’s the matter with you? 

Billy. Thmall pox. 

Captain. Then we’ll quarantine you. 


BILLY 


59 

Billy. If you refuth me you’ll be thorry for the 
consequetheth. 

Captain. I’ll take care of that, sir. 

Billy. Will you put me on there for an hour? 

Captain. No, sir, I’ll put you in irons if you 
don’t behave yourself, and feed you on hard tack. 
(He exits very angrily L.) 

Billy. (Looking after him) For two pinth, I’d 
knock out every toothe in hith head. (Alice opens 
center door suddenly and pokes her head out.) 

Alice. Supposin’ I can’t find anything but 
lowers ? 

Billy. What? 

Alice. Lower teeth. Would they do? 

Billy. No, of courthe not. 

Alice. Why? Couldn’t you turn them upside 
down? 

Billy. Have you got any brainth at all? No, 
no, no- 

Alice. Billy! Be careful! They’re coming. 
(She grabs him and pulls him into cabin B, 
leaving the door open as Beatrice and Sam 
Eustace enter from the other side l. Billy and 
Alice stand quietly waiting to hear what they have 
to say.) 

Sam. (Speaking as he enters) I can’t help feel¬ 
ing more or less to blame in the matter, because I 
introduced him to you originally. (He places chair 
for her.) Of course, I didn’t know then what a 
bounder he was. (Alice points at Billy as much 
as to say: “He means you.” He looks out at them 
cautiously.) Let me put this cushion behind your 
back. Of course, he never really belonged to our 
set, you know, though he used to try and butt in 
once in a while. We only stood for him because 
he could play the game a little. fBiLLY is about to 
throw a sponge at him when Alice seizes his hand 
and takes it away from him.) You had better have 


6o 


BILLY 


this rug around you. You’ll get chilly sitting still. 
(He tucks the rug carefully around her while Billy 
watches in agony.) If you’ll only say so, I’ll make 
him apologize to you on his bended knees. 

Beatrice. No, no. I’d rather not. Besides it 
might not be so easy. 

Sam. Oh, it isn’t much of a trick to make Billy 
Hargrave sit up and behave. Why, he acted like 
a whipped cur when I was calling him down a little 
while ago. Your mother will tell you. ('Billy is 
about to throw a hair brush when Alice prevents 
him as before.) 

Beatrice. (Almost tearfully) Didn’t he say 
anything at all? 

Sam. Not a single word. 

Beatrice. (As before) How did he look? 

Sam. As though he enjoyed it. 

Beatrice. (Bridling) It’s a bad joke that only 
makes the joker laugh. 

Sam. Take my word for it, he’s a hopeless case. 
Heaven only knows how his family must have suf¬ 
fered with him. Why, they’ve probably sent him 
on this trip to avoid some scandal. 

Beatrice. I thought he came because he had 
been sick. 

Sam. Of course, they had to say something, but 
you see they sent his sister with him to keep him 
out of trouble. I pity that poor girl. 

Beatrice. (Pettishly) She looks as though she 
could take care of both of them. ( Alice grows very 
indignant while Billy laughs silently at her until 
she holds a hand glass in front of him.) 

Sam. Of course, it was inevitable, with your 
sweet nature, that you should make excuses for him, 
and try to reclaim him, but the thing that makes me 
hot is that I was too decent to give him away until 
he had shown you what kind of a cad he could be. 

Beatrice. Oh, you were to blame. ('Billy starts 


BILLY 


61 


to throw water-bottle and is restrained as before.) 

Sam. (Taking her r. hand in his l. hand) You’ll 
forgive me, won’t you? You know I wouldn’t do 
anything to offend you for the world. 

Beatrice. I know. ("Billy hangs his head 
against the frame of the door.) 

Sam. (Jestingly) You won’t judge me by this 
unfortunate acquaintance of mine? 

Beatrice. (Stirring uneasily and withdrawing 
her hand) No! 

Sam. Your hands are cold, let me warm them 
for you. ( Billy seizes a towel and bites it. Bea¬ 
trice allows Sam to take both her hands.) Beatrice. 

Beatrice. Yes. ("Billy’s attitude becomes tense 
and tragic.) 

Sam. You remember I told you I had a question 
to ask you. ("Billy starts and Alice grabs him.) 

Beatrice. Yes. ("Billy struggles with Alice.) 

Sam. (Leaning very close to her) What is the 
answer? ("Billy reaches for something.) 

Beatrice. (Rises) Oh, not now, Sam. 

Sam. (Passionately) When? When can I have 
my answer? 

Beatrice. (After a little hesitation) Tomorrow 
morning. 

Sam. You darling. ("Alice tries to restrain 
Billy, and Sam tries to kiss Beatrice.,) 

Beatrice. Oh, Sam, don’t! 

Sam. Just one. (Trying to catch her lips.) Just 
one little one, eh? (At the moment he is going to 
kiss her, Mrs. Sloane comes quickly from her cabin, 
throwing the door back. At the sound Sam re¬ 
leases Beatrice and at the same time Billy breaks 
away from Alice.,) 

Mrs. Sloane. (With beaming countenance) 
Where are my child-? (At the same time she re¬ 

ceives a pillow in her solar plexus thrown with great 
force at Sam by Billy. The blow deprivej her of 


62 


BILLY 


breath. Sam and Beatrice rush to either side of 
her, patting her on the back and beseeching her to 
speak while she stands with eyes staring, and gasping 
for breath. Billy has been obliged to step complete¬ 
ly out of the cabin in order to aim correctly and 
hence is in full view of the others, who, when they 
discover the source of the missile, glare at him. 
Alice stands behind him at the door in conster¬ 
nation. Billy, when he realizes whom he has hit, 
looks terrified for a moment and then with desperate 
resignation:) 

Billy. Oh, whath the uthe! (He falls into the 
steamer chair as - 


CURTAIN 



ACT III 


Scene : The same as Act II. Early the next mornr¬ 
ing. There is just a tint of gray dawn in the 
sky, but the deck is still quite dark, lit only by 
the deck lights which are still burning. The 
chairs and stools are closed and placed against 
the side of the cabins . If possible the indistinct 
sounds of the engine and the wash of the waves 
against the boat should be conveyed. 

At rise, the stage is bare, and six bells are 
sounded in the distance. After a little pause, 
the door of stateroom B. is carefully opened 
and Billy's head comes cautiously around it. 
After looking up and down he opens it wider, 
and steps out. He wears pajamas with a long 
overcoat over them, and slippers on his feet. 
His hair is disheveled and he looks anxious and 
worn. Alice appears at the door behind him 
dressed in a long wrapper with a shawl around 
her shoulders. Her hair is braided down her 
back and she looks tired and sleepy. The in¬ 
terior of the room is dimly lighted but shows 
that the bed has not been disturbed. Billy 
carries in his hand a small electric pocket lamp. 

Alice. (Speaking softly but peevishly) Oh, 
Billy, you’re not going out again, are you? 

Billy. Yeth jutht onthe more. I forgot to look 
behind that latht ventilator. 

Alice. I wish you’d give it up. 

Billy. (Trying the electric lamp) Thereth 

63 


BILLY 


64 

thomething the matter with thith light. (He exam¬ 
ines and fusses unth it during the balance of the 
conversation.) 

Alice. I suppose you’ve worn out the battery. 
It’s only warranted for a hundred flashes. (Almost 
tearfully.) You said you would only make one 
thorough search after everybody had gone to bed 
and you had the deck to yourself, and you’ve made 
eight since then. Aren’t you ever going to bed at 
all? 

Billy. I tell you I can’t thleep. 

Alice. You might if you tried. 

Billy. (Irritably) I have tried. 

Alice. You don’t stay downstairs long enough 
to give yourself a chance. 

Billy. Becauthe every time I get down there 
I remember thome plathe I haven’t looked. 

Alice. I wish you’d let me get a little rest. 

Billy. What have I got to do with your rethe? 

Alice. (Fretfully) I haven’t closed my eyes all 
night. 

Billy. Well, clothe ’em now. 

Alice. How can I, while you’re wandering all 
over the boat trying to take your death of cold? 
Besides it’s too late, I mean it’s too early, it must 
be almost daylight. 

Billy. Thay, look here, do you realithe that I 
am the only one that got any right to kick? If it 
wathn’t for your carelethneth, we’d both be thound 
athleep thith minute. You’d better thtop and con- 
thider what it meanth to me before you complain 
any more. 

Alice. (Penitently) I’m sorry, Billy, I didn’t 
mean to be so selfish. But even if you found them, 
I don’t believe Mrs. Sloane would ever let you 
speak to Beatrice after what happened this after¬ 
noon. 


BILLY 


65 


Billy. It wath an acthident. 

Alice. Yes, but she’ll never believe it was. I 
don’t see how you can care so much for a girl that 
won’t give you a chance to explain. 

Billy. Thhe’d give me a thanthe if I could. 

Alice. Then why didn’t she read the letter you 
wrote her last night? 

Billy. Becauthe her mother thaw it firthe, I 
gueth. 

Alice. It wouldn’t make much difference any¬ 
how as long as you won’t tell her what’s happened 
to you. If you don’t she’ll be engaged to Sam Eus¬ 
tace before the day is out. You’ll see. ^Billy has 
restored the light.) Remember she said she would 
give him his answer this morning. 

Billy. It might be “No.” 

Alice. Not after that pillow. ( Peering off h.) 
What’s that? 

Billy. (Looking in the same direction) It’th 
the thailorth wathing down the deckth. Go inthide. 
I mutht make one latht effort before they thweep 
them overboard. 

Alice. Oh, Billy, you’ll have pneumonia. 

Billy. I’d jutht ath thoon, if I’ve got to go on 
like thith. (He commences to look along the deck 
with the aid of the little electric lamp.) 

Alice. It would break mother’s heart if she could 
see you now. 

Billy. For your thake, I’m glad thhe can’t. 

Alice. (Whispering anxiously after him) Won’t 
you please put this shawl around you? 

Billy. (Whispering hack) No. 

Alice. Be careful you don’t walk overboard in 
the dark. 

Billy. Go in, and thut the door. (He continues 
his search along the deck and finally disappears r., 
and at the same time, with a glance in the other 


66 


BILLY 


direction, Alice retires into her cabin, softly closing 
the door. After a moments pause, a long handled 
deck brush appears in the hands of the Sailor fol¬ 
lowed by the Boatswain, who carries a bucket of 
water which he occasionally splashes with his hands 
on the deck. In their progress they move the chairs, 
etc., in order to scrub, and replace them, as they 
move along.) 

Boatswain. (Pointing in the direction Billy has 
gone, and speaking in a husky whisper) See! 
There he goes! See 'im crouchin’ down by the 
davits ? 

Sailor. (Peering off) Wot’s ’e doing? 

Boatswain. (Mysteriouly) Looks as though ’e 
was follerin’ some marks along the deck. 

Sailor. (A little nervously; stops scrubbing) 
Wot sort o' marks? 

Boatswain. (As before) Foot-prints perhaps, 
but most likely blood-stains. 

Sailor. W’y should it be anythink so ’orrid— 
lofty- 

Boatswain. ’E’s lookin’ for the h’evidences of 
crime. 

Sailor. (Becoming very nervous) W’ose crime ? 

Boatswain. ’Is. 

Sailor. ’Ow d’ye know? 

Boatswain. Men who commit murders often get 
misty in the peak and go about lookin’ for their 
victims. 

Sailor. Don’t it annoy the neighbors? 

Boatswain. There are a man in Gloucester wot 
used to commit the same crime, in the same place, 
on the same day, at the same hour, every year, and 
they could never ’ang ’im because he only thought 
’e was doing the first one every time. (He resumes 
sprinkling the zmter and the Sailor nervously re¬ 
sumes his scrubbing.) 



BILLY 67 

Sailor. (Shuddering with fright) I think I’ve 
caught a chill. 

Boatswain. (Stopping his sprinkling and put¬ 
ting the bucket down, keenly) I shouldn’t be sur¬ 
prised if that was the fella’ that Pinkerton chap was 
after. 

Sailor. (With cheerful inspiration) P’raps ’e’s 
lookin’ for our teeth. 

Boatswain. No, ’e’s too young. Take my tip, 
’e ain’t after anything so innercent as teeth. (They 
resume their scrubbing and sprinkling.) 

Sailor. (Glad to change the conversation) Ain’t 
it strange that nobody’s claimed ’em? They must 
have been missed before this. Are you sure about 
the second cabin, Lofty? 

Boatswain. Positive. The stewardess down 
there is a particular friend of mine and she made 
a very thorough investigation while they was at din¬ 
ner, and she said there wasn’t one of ’em had any 
trouble chewin’ of their food. 

Sailor. I think we made a mistake givin’ ’em 
over to the purser. 

Boatswain. It was the only way of reaching the 
first class, and I did ’im a favor once. 

Sailor. Then wot d’ye make of it? 

Boatswain. They must ’ave belonged to some 
of the folks wot was visitin’ the ship yesterday. 

Sailor. That bein’ the case, wot are we goin’ to 
do about ’em ? 

Boatswain. (As he goes off still sprinkling) 
Ave ’em back and sell ’em when we get ashore. 

Sailor. ’Ow much d’ye think they’ll bring? (He 
follows him off, scrubbing. After a moment, Billy 
enters l. on the opposite side to that he went off, 
slowly searching along the deck with the little lamp. 
When he reaches the cabin on the l. of the c. doors, 
he straightens up and sighs dissappointedly, then 


68 


BILLY 


turns and tries* the handle of the door; finding it 
locked he knocks softly.) 

Billy. (After waiting a moment for an answer) 
Alithe, Alithe. (He repeats the knocking.) I thup- 
pothe thheth gone to thleep. (Knocking again.) 
Alithe! Alithe! (Growing irritable over the delay.) 
Whatthe the mather with her ? I never thaw thuth a 
lathy woman in my life. (Knocking.) Alithe,. 
Alithe! Thhe’ll make me wake up the whole thip, 
(Receiving no reply he turns away angrily and seeing 
that the window is open a little he shoves it up and 
pushes aside the curtain. Just as he is about to call 
again, he catches sight of a glass standing in a nickel 
bracket nailed to a small cupboard inside, under the 
light of a shaded electric lamp. He stands trans¬ 
fixed for a moment and then gently puts his hand 
through the window and quietly withdraws the 
glass—he turns the light on the letter of the door, 
and sees it is C. He then lights up the glass and 
grins at its contents, a full set of upper teeth—with 
fiendish delight in subdued tones.) Thhe hath thome 
too! (He is startled by the sound of the first bugle 
call for breakfast. In haste he takes the teeth out 
of the glass and sets it on the floor.) 

Alice. (As she opens her door) Billy! Billy! 
Are you there ? 

Billy. I’m coming. (He makes a bolt for her 
cabin and shuts the door.) 

(Third Steward enters. Bus.) 

Beatrice. All right—all right— (In answer to 
Mrs. Sloane.J 

Alice. Yes—Fm up already! 

Sam. Go away! Go away! (Exit Steward r. 
After a short pause there is a smothered scream 
heard in Mrs. Sloane's cabin followed by the sounds 
of excitement and search. These gradually increase 


BILLY 


69 

as if things were being violently thrown about the 
room. After a moment the door flies open showing 
the interior very much disordered. She bursts forth 
wearing a dressing gown and slippers, with the same 
fur coat or cloak worn in First Act, with her hair 
u done up” for the night. Her hand is lightly pressed 
over her mouth and she looks wildly up and down 
the deck. When she sees the glass on the floor, 
she becomes greatly agitated and utters muffled cries 
of distress behind her hand. She rushes to her 
daughter's door and knocks vigorously, all the while 
making a strange sound as though trying to call 
Beatrice with her lips closed.) 

Mrs. Sloane. (Knocking hard) Um-um-um- 
(BeatriceJ Um-um-um-um- (Beatrice.,) Um- 
um-um-um (Open the door.) 

Beatrice. (Sleepily from within) What is it? 

Mrs. Sloane. Um-um, um, um, um, um, Open 
the door at once. Do you hear? 

Beatrice. (As before) I don’t want to get up 
yet, stewardess. Call me in half an hour. (Mrs. 
Sloane becomes frantic, beating on the door with 
her fist and calling as loud as the muffled condition 
of her mouth will permit. Finally, she kicks the 
door. On account of her soft slippers it hurts her 
toes and obliges her to stand on one foot.) 

Mrs. Sloane. (Furiously) Um-um-um-Bea- 
trice. Um-um-um-um-um-um- Open the door this 
instant. 

Beatrice. (Impatiently from within) What’s 
the matter? What do you want? (Mrs. Sloane 
knocks harder than ever.) Stop knocking like that. 
(Mrs. Sloane rattles the handle of the door.) 
Don’t do that either. 

Mrs. Sloane. (In a frenzy) Um-um-um- 

Beatrice. 

Beatrice. (Close to the door inside) What? 

Mrs. Sloane. Um-um-um- Open the door. 


BILLY 


70 

Beatrice. (Irritable) Who is it? 

Mrs. Sloane. (Vehemently) Um-um-um- Your 
mother. 

Beatrice. I can’t understand you. ("Mrs. 
Sloane groans in agony.) Wait a minute and I’ll 
open the door. (Mrs. Sloane leans exhausted and 
dejected against the door, so that after a short wait 
when Beatrice opens it, it pushes her forward, 
which only adds to her indignation.) I beg your 
pardon! (Holding the door ajar, making it impos¬ 
sible for her see who it is.) Now, what is it, please? 
^Mrs. Sloane seises the door and throws it wide 
open almost landing Beatrice on her nose. She 
wears a wrapper and slippers with a long travelling 
coat over same.) 

Mrs. Sloane. Um-um-um (Look at me.) 

(All the lines in brackets are merely the sense of 
what Mrs. Sloane conveys and are not spoken.) 

Beatrice. (Astounded) Mother! 

Mrs. Sloane. Um, urn, um, um, um (Yes, and 
look at me.) 

Beatrice. What has happened? 

Mrs. Sloane. Um, um, um? Um, um, um, um. 
(Can't you see? My teeth are gone.) 

Beatrice. Is there something the matter with 
your mouth? Are you sick? 

Mrs. Sloane. (Shaking her head) Um, um, 
um. (No, no no.) 

Beatrice. (Taking alarm) Is it your teeth? 

Mrs. Sloane. (Nodding her head) Um, um, 
um, um, um, um. (Yes, yes. They're gone I tell 
you.) 

Beatrice. Where are they? 

Mrs. Sloane. (Waving her hand away from her) 
Um. (Gone.) 

Beatrice. Gone? 


BILLY 


7 1 


Mrs. Sloane. (Holding her head) Urn, um. 

Beatrice. (By this time much agitated herself) 
But where? 

Mrs. Sloane. (Shrugging her shoulders) Um, 
um, um. (I don't know.) 

Beatrice. What did you do with them? ("Mrs. 
Sloane points to the glass on the floor.) Did you 
put them in that? ("Mrs. Sloane nods.) But you 
surely didn’t leave them out there all night? 

Mrs. Sloane. Um, um, um, um. Um, um. 
(She takes Beatrice by the arm and pulls her over 
to her own room where she points to the stand where 
the glass was.) Um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um, 
um. (No, no, of course not. Come here. When I 
went to bed I left them in the glass in the stand.) 

Beatrice. You mean the glass was in the stand? 

Mrs. Sloane. Um, um. 

Beatrice. When you went to bed? 

Mrs. Sloane. Um, um. 

Beatrice. Then what’s it doing out here? 

Mrs. Sloane. Um, um, um—um—um? Um, 
um, um, um. Um, um—um, um—um, um, um. 
[Don’t you understand. They’ve been stolen. 
Someone has stolen my teeth.] 

Beatrice. (Very worried) Oh, mother, I don’t 
know what you mean, when you do it so fast. Won’t 
you please speak? 

Mrs. Sloane. Um. [No.] (She repeats what 
she said before.) 

Beatrice. (Anxiously) Are you trying to tell 
me they’ve been stolen? 

Mrs. Sloane. Um, um. 

Beatrice. (Miserably) Oh, mother! 

Mrs. Sloane. Um, um! Um, um, um! Um, 
um, um, um, um, um—um, um, um, um, um, um. 
[Some thief opened the window while I was asleep 
and reached in and took the glass.] (She uses pan¬ 
tomime to assist her expression.) 


72 


BILLY 


Beatrice. Do you mean the man reached in 
through the window and took them? 

Mrs. Sloane. Um, uni, um. [Of course, I do.] 
("Mrs. Sloane renews her search in the cabin.) 

Beatrice. But who would take the trouble to 
steal a set of teeth? Oh, they must be in the room 
somewhere. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Shaking her head) Um, um, 
um. [No, they’re not.] 

Beatrice. Are you sure? 

Mrs. Sloane. Um, um, um, um. [Of course, 
I am.] 

Beatrice. It isn’t as though they were of any 
value. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Indignantly) Um! [What?] 

Beatrice. To anyone else. Why it wasn’t even 
a gold plate. Are you certain you looked every¬ 
where carefully? 

Mrs. Sloane. (Impatiently) Um, um, um. 
[Yes, certainly.] (She steps out of the cabin.) 

Beatrice. Well, what are you going to do? 
(''Mrs. Sloane shrugs her shoulders and sits on a 
camp stool close to the door with an air of fortitude. 
Beatrice is growing a little peevish under the 
strain.) You can’t sit there like that all day, mother. 

Mrs. Sloane, Um, um, um, um, um, um. [I 
don’t know what to do.] (Waving her hands 
towards Beatrice with a suggestion of resignation.) 
Um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um, 
um, um. [You’ll have to try and get me out of it.] 

Beatrice. You mean it’s up to me? ("Mrs. 
Sloane shrugs her shoulders again.) Well, the only 
thing I can think of is to tell Sam, though I hate to, 
and have him report it to the Captain. He’ll know 
how to find the thief without anyone else knowing 
of it. If we were to confide in the purser, he might 
think it was funny and make a joke of it. ("Mrs. 
Sloane glares indignantly.) But we can trust to 


BILLY 


73 

the dignity of the captain. (Soothingly. Takes hold 
of Mother. She rises.) Now if you’ll just go in¬ 
side, dear, I’ll call Sam and tell him to go and see 
the captain at once. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Protestingly) Um, um, um, um, 
um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um? 
[That’s all very well, but what am I to do in the 
meantime?] 

Beatrice. (Sympathetically. Urging her into 
her cabin) I never heard of anything so dreadful 
and the person who would do such a wicked thing 
ought to be thrown overboard. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Pressing her hand over her di¬ 
gestive organs) Um, um, um, um, um? Um, um, 
um, um—um, um, um, um, um, um? [How am I 
to live? Do you expect me to starve to death?] 

Beatrice. (Answering the action) Yes, I know. 
I’m terribly sorry for you, dear. You’ll have to 
drink milk, I suppose, and you can certainly eat 
raw eggs? ^Mrs. Sloane, very much aggrieved 
gives voice to a burst of vituperative “Um urnsP 
while Beatrice tries to console her.) Yes, yes, I 
know—it’s too bad. Don’t worry—we’ll find them. 
(She finally closes the door on Mrs. Sloane, who 
continues to vociferate until it is shut. Beatrice 
crosses to Sam’s door, and knocks, at first, gently.) 

Sam. (Answering gruffly from inside) Go 
away. (She knocks again.) I don’t want any 
breakfast. 

Beatrice (Knocking louder, but calling softly) 
Sam! 

Sam. (As before only more so) Get away from 
my door, will you? 

Beatrice. (Continues to knock) I want to 
speak to you. 

Sam. Damn it! What the he- 

Beatrice. (Almost shrieking) Sam! It’s I, 
Beatrice. 


74 


BILLY 


Sam. (In gentler tones and much confused) 
Oh! Is that you, Beatrice ? I beg your pardon. I 
thought it was—just a moment, please. I’m so 

sorry—the sea makes such a noise, and- (He 

opens the door and appears looking rather pale and 
unhappy. He wears a pair of trousers, shoes un¬ 
laced, and a long overcoat turned up around the 
throat.) 

Beatrice. I’m so sorry I had to wake you up. 

Sam. Not at all. Is anything wrong? 

Beatrice. (Quickly) Yes, I- (She hesi¬ 

tates.) 

Sam. (Anxiously) Nothing serious? 

Beatrice. Yes, very! Mother- 

Sam. Is— she sick? 

Beatrice. (Breathlessly) No. She’s lost— 
("Sam passes a clean handkerchief over his mouth 
and brow .)—her teeth. 

Sam. Her what? 

Beatrice. Teeth. 

Sam. Didn’t they belong to her? 

Beatrice. No. She had her own upper ones 
pulled years ago for neuralgia. 

Sam. (Passing his handkerchief over his mouth) 
Did she lose them—overboard? 

Beatrice. No, no. They’ve been stolen. 

Sam. What for? 

Beatrice. Oh, Sam, how do I know? Some¬ 
body took them out of the glass during the night. 

Sam. (Mopping his brow and speaking weakly) 
Do you think so? 

Beatrice. Yes, unfortunately, I can’t find out 
any details from mother because she won’t open 
her mouth without them, but she’s simply heart¬ 
broken. 

Sam. (In the same tone) It’s too bad, isn’t it? 

Beatrice. It’s terrible. 

Sam. I suppose there’s nothing to do about it. 



BILLY 


75 

Beatrice. Oh, yes there is. I want you to go to 
the Captain and tell him what’s happened right 
away, if you will. 

Sam. (With a sickly smile) Certainly, with 
pleasure. 

Beatrice. Of course, I don’t want anyone else 
to know it. 

Sam. (Feebly) No, indeed. 

Beatrice. You see she can neither speak nor eat 
until she gets them back. 

Sam. (As above) Certainly not. 

Beatrice. Oh, don’t forget to tell him that the 
glass was found outside the cabin. See! here it is. 
(She holds it up to him and he backs away from it, 
nervously repeating the business with his handker¬ 
chief and making a brave effort to appear happy.) 

Sam. Yes, I see. If you’ll- 

Beatrice. (Noticing his hesitancy) Of course, 
I wouldn’t have you do it for the world if you’d 
rather not. 

Sam. (Inanely) Oh, I’d love to. Let me finish 
dressing—and I’ll find them for you—if it costs me 
—my life. (At his door.) 

Beatrice. Ah, thank you ever so much, Sam. 

Sam. Not at all—I like it. (Exits and shuts 
door.) 

Beatrice. (Calling through the window to her 
mother) It’s all right, mother—Sam is going to at¬ 
tend to it at once. ('Mrs. Sloane answers from in¬ 
side and then slams the window down.) 

(Enter Steward c. with tray. A glass with some 
brandy in it and a bottle of soda. The Doctor 
enters from l. side and meets him.) 

Doctor. Good morning, Steward. 

Steward. (Cheerfully) Good morning, sir. 
Seen the ghost? 


76 


BILLY 


Doctor. What ghost ? 

Steward. Why, the boatswain and some of the 
crew say a man in a long overcoat has been haunt¬ 
ing the decks all night. 

Doctor. More likely a seasick passenger. 

Steward. Yes, sir. Number twenty-four, per¬ 
haps. The man on watch says he’s not been in 
his berth more than five minutes at a time since 
midnight. 

Doctor. Number twenty-four? 

Steward. Yes, sir. 

Doctor. Name Hargrave? 

Steward. Think so, sir. 

Doctor. Ah! well, I advise you to be careful 
with him. 

Steward. Really, sir? 

Doctor. He is decidedly eccentric. He had a very 
severe accident playing football, evidently some in¬ 
jury to the head which affected the brain and left 
the mind unbalanced. 

Steward. I noticed he was a bit queer yesterday. 

Doctor. I consider him positively dangerous and 
I shall advise the Captain to put him under restraint 
as soon as I can see him. In the meantime keep 
your eye on him. 

Steward. I will sir. Much obliged, sir. (As he 
exits.) Oh, sir, the lady in eighteen would like to 
see you, sir. She’s been hoping she’d die all night, 
sir- 

Doctor. Oh—very well then—I’ll go to her at 
once. (The Doctor exits c. and the Steward goes 
off on the side L.j 

(Alice has almost completed her toilet. She looks 
up and down the deck and then opens the door 
wide. Seeing no one, she steps out and Billy 
comes to the door. He holds Mrs. Sloane's 
teeth in his hand.) 


BILLY 


77 

Alice. ( Speaking with repressed decision) 
There’s no one in sight. Quick now, go out and 
put them back. You ought to be ashamed of your¬ 
self. 

Billy. I tell you I didn’t mean to take ’em, I 
only wanted to see if they’d fit me. 

Alice. (Astonished) Why Billy, the idea of 
talking to a girl with her own mother’s teeth! 

Billy. Better than none at all. 

Alice. After all you’ve suffered yourself, I don’t 
see how you could do it. 

Billy. Therve her right for butting in to other 
people’s affairth. Maybe thith will teath her to keep 
her mouth thut. 

Alice. Don’t be so unreasonable, she didn’t have 
anything to do with the loss of yours. What you 
should have done was to have gone to her in the 
first place and told her all about them. Having 
some of her own she would have sympathized with 
you at once. 

Billy. I don’t want thympathy, I want teeth. 

Alice. Well, you can’t use those, so go and put 
them back. 

Billy. (Fiendishly) I wonder what thhe’d do 
if thhe couldn’t find them. 

(Enter Stewardess c. who knocks on Mrs. 

Sloane’s door without their notice.) 

Alice. Well, she wouldn’t make such a fuss about 
it as you have. She’s too sensible to be ashamed of 
something she can’t help. She wouldn’t mind say¬ 
ing right out that she’s lost them. 

Stewardess. (Speaking to the door after wait¬ 
ing for an answer to her knock) Vot iss the matter 
here? I cannot get any word inside or outside. (At 
the sound of her voice, Billy and Alice turn sud¬ 
denly and Billy quickly hacks into the cabin leaving 


BILLY 


78 

the door open. Alice goes and stands inside it. 
The Stewardess continues to knock and then 
speaks through the door.) Is dis stateroom empty 
or full ? (Growing very impatient.) My! my! my! 
Vot iss it! Iss dare any vone in dere?—Vot—Iss 

some vone speaking?- (Moving away from the 

door a little.) Dere must be a dog in dot room. 
(She returns to the door and makes a hissing sound 
with her mouth.) He don’t bark any. (She stoops 
and whistles.) Vot! (With sudden surprise she 
stands erect.) It’s a Voman! (Again to door.) 
Say, v’vy don’t you answer me?—Vot!—I don’t 
understand vot you’re speakin.—Vill you have break¬ 
fast up or down?- Did you say both?—Vot?— 

Are you trying to sing? My goodness! Vot a 
nonsense! Say, von’t you please open the door and 
let me look at your face. ^Mrs. Sloane pushes 
the curtains aside and opens the window, appearing 
there with her hand still over her mouth.) Good 
morning, vot vill you have for breakfast? 

Mrs. Sloane. (Very indignant) Um, um, um, 
um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um. 
[Nothing at all, you impertinent woman, go away.] 
(The Stewardess stares at her aghast, and Billy 
almost falls out of the door trying to catch sight 
of her.) 

Stewardess. How long have you been like dot ? 
No vonder I thought you vas a wild animal. 

Mrs. Sloane. Um, um, um, um, um, um, um, 
um, um, um, um, um, um, um. [How dare you talk 
to me like that? I’ll report you.] 

Stewardess. My gracious! Ain’t you feeling 
bad! f Billy has commenced to laugh silently.) 

Alice. Go inside, Billy. You can’t put them 
back now, it’s too late. ('Alice pushes him hack, 
slipping inside and closing the door after her.) 

Stewardess. Something to eat vill make you feel 
better. Vill you try a salt herring? 


BILLY 


79 

Mrs. Sloane. (Miserably) Um, um—um, um, 
uni, um, um, um, um—[No, no, I can’t eat any¬ 
thing.] 

Stewardess. Take your time, I can vait. Have 
some smoked beef and some Saratoga chips and 
some dry toast, yes? 

Mrs. Sloane. Um, um. [No, no.] 

Stewardess. Den, vot vill you have? 

Mrs. Sloane. Um, um. [Nothing.] 

Stewardess. (Losing patience) Can’t you say 
nothing but that Um, um? (Mrs. Sloane grows 
very angry at this and launches into speechless in¬ 
vectives, without stopping, while the Stewardess 
replies.) Well, you needn’t get so mad about it. 
Vot? It is the rolling waves dot make you sick, it 
ain’t me. Vy don’t you take someding for it? (Ad 
lib, until Beatrice comes quickly from her cabin 
and speaks.) 

Beatrice. Wait, wait. What is it? What’s the 
matter? (They both try to explain at once.) 

Stewardess. All I vant iss, to know vot she iss 
talking about. 

Mrs. Sloane. Um—um—umumumum. Um, 
um, um, um, um, um, um—um, um, um, um, um, um. 
[The impudent creature, I’ll have her discharged 
as soon as I open my mouth.] 

Beatrice. ]V£y mother has a dreadful toothache, 
stewardess—— 

Stewardess. (Regretfully) V’y didn’t you tell 
me you had a bad face? ^Mrs. Sloane starts 
again.) 

Beatrice. Never mind, mother. (To Stew¬ 
ardess.,) So please bring her some porridge and a 
glass of milk. 

Stewardess. (Smiling again) Right away, and 
I vill bring you someding that will make you talk 
vid your mouth. (She exits c.) 


8o 


BILLY 


Beatrice. It’s too bad, mother, but she didn’t 
mean any harm. She didn’t understand, that was all. 
(Mrs. Sloane replies in an injured tone and dis¬ 
appears from sight as Sam enters l.c. from his cabin. 
He is completely dressed, but still looks pale and 
carries the handkerchief. Anxiously.) Did you see 
him? 

Sam. (In a lifeless tone) No, not exactly. 

Beatrice. What do you mean? 

Sam. I can’t see him for at least two hours. 

Beatrice. Why not? 

Sam. Because he was on the bridge all night, and 
when he does that, no one is allowed to wake him 
until a certain time. 

Beatrice. Who told you so? 

Sam. The purser; he’s been talking to me in my 
room. 

Beatrice. Then you haven’t been downstairs 
yet? 

Sam. No, not yet. 

Beatrice. Well, when you go down to break¬ 
fast— (Sam grasps the back of a chair.) —What’s 
the matter? 

Sam. (Airily) Nothing. Haven’t got my sea 
legs yet. (Leaning over the chair.) You were 
saying- 

Beatrice. You might inquire if anything else has 
been missed. (Mrs. Sloane appears at window 
drawing the curtain a little to hide her face.) Oh, 
mother! It’s very unfortunate, but you’ll have to 
wait for two hours. It’s only Sam. (Mrs. Sloane 
drops the curtain and bows to Sam, who in turn 
gazes at her with increasing weakness.) 

Mrs. Sloane. Um, um, um, um, um, um, um, 
urn? [Good morning, Sam, isn’t this dreadful?] 

Sam. (Crosses to Mrs. Sloane making an 
effort.) I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Sloane. 


BILLY 81 

Mrs. Sloane. (With injured dignity) Um, um, 
etc. 

Sam. (Sympathetically) I never heard of any¬ 
thing so outrageous in my life. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Resigned to her fate.) Um, um 
—etc. 

Sam. Yes, I know just how you feel. 

Mrs. Sloane. (With rising fury) Um, um, etc. 

Sam. I should say not, not for a moment. 

Mrs. Sloane. (Sorrowfully) Um, um, etc. 

Sam. Oh, don’t speak like that, Mrs. Sloane. 
(She glares at him and catching his eyes, he mops 
his forehead.) 

Beatrice. (Quickly) Don’t you think you’d bet¬ 
ter go down to breakfast now, Sam? 

Sam. (Going r.J Yes, I am so hungry—I could 
eat a whale. (Exit r.i.e. Enter Alice.,) 

Alice. Good morning, Beatrice. Good morning, 
Mrs. Sloane! 

Beatrice. Mother isn’t very well this morning. 

Alice. What’s the matter with her? 

Beatrice. She has neuralgia. 

Alice. Oh, I’m so sorry—is there anything I 
can do? 


(Enter Billy cabin B.) 

Beatrice. Thank you, so much, Yes, mother, 
I’m coming. (Exit cabin c.) 

Alice. Billy, I’m afraid they are going to lock 
you up. 

Billy. Where ? 

Alice. In your cabin, I think. 

Billy. What for? 

Alice. I heard the purser and the doctor talking 
about it. 

Billy. What did they say? 

Alice. Someone told the purser that Mrs. Sloane 


82 


BILLY 


has lost a valuable ornament and he suspected you 
because you were looking for your own all night. 
The doctor believes you have softening of the brain 
on account of your accident and they're going to 
ask the captain to confine you as a danger to the 
community. 

Billy. (Much agitated) But if they do that— 

Alice. You’ll lose Beatrice. Now, listen to me. 
I’ve thought of a plan. You must speak to Beatrice 
and tell her it's all a mistake. 

Billy. Mithake, how can I thay that? 

Alice. Wait. You can say words without ses 
or c's. You can say madam, or dear lady, can't you? 

Billy. (Brightening) Dear lady. 

Alice. That’s it. “You wrong me." 

Billy. You wrong me. 

Alice. Fine. Now, that's the way you must 
talk to her. 

Billy. It’s a great idea, but I can’t think quick 
enough. 

Alice. Yes, you can, if you try. And I’ll stand 
by the window and prompt you. 

Billy. But thuppothing she’s over there? 

Alice. You must make her sit over here. 
(Points to window.) 

Billy. I’ll tell you; I’ll write it out and thtudy it. 

Alice. There won’t be time. 

Beatrice. (Speaking over her shoulder as she 
leaves her mother's cabin) Yes, mother, I will. I 
won’t forget. 

Alice. There she is. Now’s your chance. (She 
rushes into her cabin, pulling the door after her . 
Billy in panic, attempts to follow her just as she 
closes door. Alice, from the zvindow of her cabin) 
It's all right—I'm here- (Pulls dozm slat shut¬ 

ter of window. Billy then turns and stands facing 
Beatrice. For a moment, they stand looking at 
each other and then Beatrice moves tozmrds the 



BILLY 


83 

center door. In the coming scene, Billy speaks in 
a rather precise style, growing more impassioned as 
the scene progresses.) 

Billy. Bea- 

Beatrice. Don’t call me Beatrice—please— 

Billy. I can’t—I mean I won’t, Madam—one 
moment—I beg—I have got them—I have a tale 
to impart to you. (Indicates chair near window of 
Alice's cabin.) Won’t you thi—wait here—while 
you lith—hear what I have to tha—tell you? 

Beatrice. Please be quick, Mr. Hargrave, I’m 
in a hurry. (She sits, he having placed the chair 
so that her back is partly toward him.) 

Billy. Bea- 

Beatrice. Miss Sloane—please. ("Billy startled 
at sound of name, gases in terror at her for a mo¬ 
ment, then quickly leans toward the window of 
Alice's room, with his ear against the shutter.) 

Billy. (Turning from shutter with air of relief) 
My friend—you have wronged me- 

Beatrice. (Haughtily) Oh, I think not. 

Billy. You are laboring under a mithtak—an 
unkind idea. 

Beatrice. (Icily) In what way? 

Billy. I hear you imagine that what I have to 
tell you pertained to my early life. Ith—am I not 
right? (She bows her head.) Oh, Bea— (Win¬ 
dow business repeated.) —dear lady, how could you 
thu—that unkindly of me ? Why you are the lath— 
final perth—individual in the world to whom I would 
confide thu—anything like that. What I intended to 
convey wath—wa—could not bring the color to the 
fa—brow of an angel. 

Beatrice. (Less frigidly) Well, what was it 
then? (He is at a loss and puts ear to window.) 

Billy. (After being prompted) Ah, there you 
have me on the hip. 

Beatrice. What! 




84 


BILLY 


Billy. I mean I can’t tell you now—I know it 
ma—appear—thra—odd—but I beg of you to believe 
in my honeth—thin—integrity for a few dayth—day 
or two. 

Beatrice. (Partially relenting) You’re asking a 
great deal, after the way you’ve behaved. 

Billy. I know I am, but I tho—I pledge my 
word you won’t regret it. Won’t you give me an¬ 
other thha—opportunity? 

Beatrice. (Doubtfully) Well, I don’t- 

Billy. Oh, Bea— (Window business repeated.) 
—fair one, I cannot find the proper word to tell you 
what I mean, but you will break my heart, if you 
tha-utter the word “no.” I’d rather be dead than 
have you think me unworthy of your pardon— 
Bea— (He is at a loss and appeals to window — the 
expression of his face shows he gets no assistance 
and he gradually becomes panic-stricken.) —lady 
dear, don’t—don’t abandon me in my hour of need— 
you are—the light of my life—you are—the every¬ 
thing I want. For your thak—on your account— 
the thkys—the clouds are blue—the thar—the moon 
—ith—are pale,—the wind blouth—blew in the 
green wood—the little dog laughed and— (Towards 
window.) —I’ll kill her when I get hold of her! 

Beatrice. What ? 

Billy. The green water below and the white bird 
above- 

Beatrice. What are you saying? 

Billy. I’m damned if I know. 

Beatrice. Well—I never—the idea! Is that 
what you wanted me to listen to—Oh, Billy—how 
could you? (She exits into her own cabin. Billy 
follows her and speaks to her as she disappears.) 

Billy. Wait—wait—I didn’t mean it. I’ll tell 
you the whole truth—if you’ll only wait— (Door 
shuts in his face.) —Oh, Beatrith, if you only knew 



BILLY 85 

how I am thuffering becauth® I can’t even thay your 
name- 


(Enter Alice center door rapidly.) 

Alice. (Excitedly) Billy, they’re found! 
Billy. (Turning to her) What? 

Alice. Yes, they’re inside; I’ve seen them. 
Billy. Who found them? 

Alice. I don’t know— (Pointing off c.) —but 
they’re there. 

Billy. (Joyfully) Where ? 

Alice, Hanging up in the little glass vase at the 
head of the stairs where they post the day’s run. 
/Billy’s expression changes from joy to disgust 
during her speech.) 

Billy. (With quiet desperation) Go and get 

’em. 

Alice. I can’t—the case is locked. 

Billy. Well, get the key. 

Alice. I can’t. The purser’s got it. 

Billy. Well—go and athk him for it. 

Alice. How can I? 

Billy. (Angrily) Why can’t you? 

Alice. Because there’s a little card hanging to 
them which says that the owner must apply in person. 
Billy. (With inspiration) Then they’re yourth. 
Alice. But, Billy, I’ve got all mine. 

Billy. (Challengingly) Well— what are you 

going to do about it? 

Alice. What am I going to do? Why, I didn’t 
put them in there. 

Billy. (Aggressively) That don’t make any dif¬ 
ference^ —you’ve got to get ’em. 

Alice. But he won’t give them to me. 

Billy. You’re a coward. 

Alice. I am not. 


&6 BILLY 

Billy. You thaid you loved your brother! 

Alice. Well! 

Billy. I’ll get 'em myself— (Crossing her.) 
I'll thmath the cathe. 

Alice. (Grasping him by the arm) No, Billy, 
you can’t do that. 

Billy. Why not ? 

Alice. Because everybody’s come up from break¬ 
fast and they’re all standing around looking at them, 
/Billy retreats, crosses to l. with a groan. Alice 
follows him, brightly.) but nobody’s claimed them 
yet! 

Billy. (Savagely and baring teeth) Yet! 

Alice. Oh, Billy, close your mouth. ("Billy does 
so, putting his hand over it.) I’ll tell you what you 
can do. You go to the purser and tell him they 
belong to you or say your grandmother left them to 
you as a keepsake, and- 

Billy. (Turning on her) Do you think I’d 
claim them now, after they’ve been on exhibition— 
(Crossing r.J —with a lot of thilly foolth thtaring 
at ’em as though they’d been dug up? (Turning 
back on Alice, who had come c.) Thay they’re 
mine and make mythelf the laughing thtock of the 
whole thip, before the girl I worship—you—you— 
you don’t belong on earth! 

Alice. But what can we do if you don’t claim 
them? 

Billy. Do ? Think—think—think—can’t you 

think ? 

Alice. Well, I am. You couldn’t use beads, or 
buttons, or anything, could you? 

Billy. Get out of my thight before I forget our 
relationship. 

Alice. Well, I’m trying to help you, Billy— 
Couldn’t you use putty until we get to Havana? 

Billy. Putty! (Glares at her. Clapping of 
hands heard off center with the sound of a gavel on 


BILLY 87 

tables. Billy and Alice stand perfectly still lis¬ 
tening.) 

Voice. (Off c., imitating tones of auctioneer) 
Attention, attention, ladies and gentlemen, your at¬ 
tention for one moment, please. I have here—ladies 
and gentlemen, a beautiful piece of workmanship in 

gold and porcelain- (Billy and Alice glare at 

each other in horror.) It has come to the hammer 
under peculiar circumstances. Now then, ladies and 
gentlemen, what am I offered for this valuable dental 
masterpiece ? ( Billy and Alice rush to center open¬ 
ing off, Alice r. of opening, Billy l.J Remember, 
gentlemen, you are aiding a charity, for the sake 
of this magnificent set of tombstones, will enable 
the faithful sailor to spend his old age in peace and 
comfort. 

Billy. (Horror stricken) Alith—they’re going 
to auction ’em off for the benefit of the theamanth 
home! (Great laughter outside.) 

Billy. What are you laughing at? 

Alice. (Looking off) They’re laughing at them. 

Billy. Where are they now? 

Alice. They’re on a little red pin-cushion in the 
middle of the table. (Hand-clapping off as Billy 
rushes towards center doors. Stopping him.) 
They’re going to begin. 

Voice. Come, now ladies and gentlemen, what 
am I offered for this valuable set of crockery—use¬ 
less to anyone but the owner, but a charity to the 
sailor. Come, now, gentlemen, what offers— what 
offers! 

Sam. (Off) Five dollars. 

Alice. (To Billy ) Why, they cost fifty! 

Voice. Five dollars for this beautiful set of piano 
keys. (Hilly shivers.) Five dollars! It’s a sacri¬ 
fice! Come, now, gentlemen, I am waiting for a 
fair bid- 

Billy. (With inspiration) Why thith ith easy. 



88 


BILLY 


(Handing Alice a bill from a number of them he 
takes from right hand trousers* pocket.) Offer ’em 
ten! 

Alice. (Calling off and waving bill) Mr. Har¬ 
grave bids ten! 

Voice. Ten! Come, now, that’s better. Ten-ten- 
ten-ten—I’m offered ten dollars! Come, now, is 
that all? Ten-ten- 

Sam. Fifteen! 

Billy. (Handing Alice another bill) Twenty! 

Voice. Twenty — that’s right—twenty-twenty- 
twenty-twenty—do I hear any further offers-? 

Sam. Thirty! 

Billy. (Handing Alice two bills) Fifty! 

Alice. (Calling off) Fifty! 

Voice. Fifty! Come, now, gentlemen, that’s bet¬ 
ter—I am offered fifty dollars! They are going at 
fifty dollars—going-going-going- 

Sam. Seventy-five! 

Billy. (Handing Alice his remaining bills) 
One hundred! 

Voice. One hundred! One hundred! One hun¬ 
dred ! Going—going-going! 

Sam. One hundred and fifty! 

Billy. What damned fool ith that? 

Alice. Why, don’t you know? 

Billy. What did I ath you for? 

Alice. Why, it’s Sam Eustace—don’t you see! 
He thinks they’re Mrs. Sloane’s and he’s trying to 
make good. 

Billy. (Frantically digging down in his left hand 
trousers* pockets and bringing up some yellow bills — 
hands them to Alice ) Two hundred ! 

Alice. Two hundred! (Cheers and applause 
off — to Billy.) Sam’s getting white, Billy. 

Voice. Two hundred! Gentlemen, they are go¬ 
ing at the very fair price of two hundred dollars— 
going-going-going!!! 





Billy” Curtain call, end of play 



rX 

hi • %. 

























BILLY 


89 


Sam. Three hundred! 

Billy. Four hundred! ("Billy takes check book 
and stylographic pen from his pocket and commences 
to write check.) 

Alice. Four hundred! (Cheers and applause 
off—to Billy.) He looks sick, Billy. 

Voice. Four hundred—four hundred—four hun¬ 
dred—going-going-going! 

Sam. Four hundred and fifty! 

Billy. (Tearing check he was writing and com¬ 
mences another) Five hundred! 

Alice. Five hundred! (Cheers and applause 
off—to Billy.,) You’ll ruin us if you keep on Billy! 

Voice. Five hundred. Mr. Hargrave bids five 
hundred dollars! Now, they are going-going-going 
- ("Billy hands check to Alice.,) 

Sam. Five hundred and fifty- 

Billy. How doeth he look now? 

Alice. He can’t last much longer! 

Billy. A thouthand- 

Alice. (Calling off) A thousand! ("Billy com¬ 
mences another check.) Billy—Sam’s gone- 

Voice. Going-going-going— ("Billy hands Alice 
check.) Gone! Knocked down to Mr. Hargrave 
for one thousand dollars! 

Alice. Oh, Billy! (Rushes off center , Billy 
drops in chair left of center. Great cheers and hand¬ 
clapping off.) 

Voice. Three cheers for Mr. Hargrave’s gen¬ 
erosity! (More cheers off, Billy’s face beams and 
he bursts into laughter—takes Mrs. Sloane’s set of 
teeth from his pocket and waits expectantly for 
Alice’s return. Enter Alice quickly center with 
the set of teeth found by Boatswain in her left 
hand and a handkerchief saturated with alcohol in 
her right.) 

Alice. Quick, Billy, here they are! She’s 
coming! ("Billy takes his own set and hands Alice 






BILLY 


90 

Mrs. Sloane’s and turns his hack to audience. 
Alice crosses quickly to Mrs. Sloane’s cabin and 
knocks. It is opened on a crack and Alice passes 
the teeth through.) Here you are, Mrs. Sloane, with 
Billy's love. (Crosses back to Billy.,) Are they all 
right, Billy? ('Billy takes her in his arms, swings 
her gently over to r. of him—now showing his face 
to the audience as Beatrice enters quickly from c.) 

Beatrice. (Contritely) Oh, Billy— it was so 
good of you—I was mistaken—I’m so sorry—I mis¬ 
judged you—please forgive me- ('Billy leaves 

Alice and walks slowly over to Beatrice.,) 

Billy. (Taking Beatrice’s hands and looking at 
her intently, says with a tremendous appreciation of 

the consonant “C”—the one word - “Beatrice.” 

Billy holds her in his arms—looks over her shoulder 
and winks at Alice, showing his teeth in all their 
whiteness. Alice sinks into chair r. with a sigh of 
relief as——) 


CURTAIN 





Clarence 

Comedy in 4 aots by Booth Tarkington. 5 males, 5 females. 2 
interiors. Costumes, modem. Plays 2% hoars. 

One of the “five million”, Clarence served where he was sent— 
though it was no further than Texas. As an entomologist he 
found—on this side of the ocean—no field for his specialty, so 
they set him to driving mules. 

Now, reduced to civil life and seeking a job, he finds a posi¬ 
tion In the home of one Wheeler, a wealthy man with a. family. 
And because he’d ‘'been in the army” he becomes guide, philos¬ 
opher and friend to the members of that distracted family 
group. Clarence’s position is an anomolous one. He mends the 
plumbing, tunes the piano, types—off stage—and plays the saxo¬ 
phone. And around him revolves such a group of characters 
as only Booth Tarkington could offer. It is a real American 
comedy, at which the audience ripples with appreciative and 
delighted laughter. 

Those marvelous young people, Cora and Bobby, are portrait 
sketches warranted to appeal to everyone. 

Royalty, $25,00. Price, 75 cents. 

The Charm School 

Comedy in 3 acts by Alice Duer Miller and Robert Milton. 
€ males, 10 females. (May be played by 5 males and S females). 
(Any number of school girls may be used in the ensembles). 
2 interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 2y 2 hours. 

A young automobile salesman just out of his 'teens inherits a 
girl’s school and insists on running it himself, according to his 
own ideas, chief of which is that the dominant feature in the 
education of the young girl of today should be CHARM. 

In the end the young man gives up the school and promises 
to wait until the youngest of his pupils reaches a marriagable 
age. 

“The Charm School” has the freshness of youth, the Inspir¬ 
ation of a novel idea, the charm of originality, and wholesome, 
amusing entertainment. We strongly recommend it for high 
school production. 

First produced in New York, then toured the country. Two 
companies now playing it in England. Royalty, $25.00. Price, 
75 cents. 

A Full House 

Farcical comedy in 3 acts. By Fred Jackson. 7 males, 7 
females. 1 interior. Modern costumes. Plays 2*4> hours. This 
newest and funniest farce was written by Fred Jackson, the 
well-known story writer, and is backed up by the prestige of 
an impressive New York success and the promise of unlimited 
ftm presented in the most attractive form. A cleverer faroe 
has not been seen for many a long day. “A Full House” Is a 
house full of laughs. Royalty, $35. Price, 75 cents. 


SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City 
New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed 
Free on Request 



t 


The Famous Mrs. Fair 

A play in 4 acts. By James X’orbes, author of “The Com* 1 
milters'’, “The Traveling Salesman", etc. 3 males, 10 females. 
2 interiors. Costumes modern. Flays 2Vk hours. 

Mrs. Fair was a major abroad and won a medal for bravery. 
Her husband was displeased when Mrs. Fair came home to a 
fame which lifted her out of his life. The dissatisfaction grew 
as she became absorbed in public functions. Mr. Forbes traces 
the widening of the rift between husband and wife with great 
skill in the first two acts. These are light comedy. In the third 
the mood becomes serious and we find that Mrs. Fair’s absence 
from home has set the husband to philandering and the daugh¬ 
ter to intimacy with a gay set. Indeed, only through the joint 
efforts of husband and wife to save the girl from danger, is 
harmony again established. 

A true comedy, written with keen insight. Royalty, $35.00. 
Price, 75 cents. 

Mottling But the Truth 

Comedy in 3 acts. By James Montgomery. 5 males, 6 fe¬ 
males. Costumes, modern. 2 interiors. Plays 2% hours. 

Is it possible to tell the absolute truth— even for twenty- 
four hours? It is—at least Bob Bennett, hero of “Nothing But 
the Truth", accomplished the feat. The bet he made with his 
business partners, and the trouble he got into is the subject of 
William Collier’s tremendous comedy hit. “Nothing But the 
Truth’’ can be whole-heartedly recommended as one of the 
most sprightly, amusing and popular comedies. Royalty, $25.00. 
Price, 60 cents. 

On the Hiring Line 

Comedy in 3 acts, by Harvey O’Higgins and Harriet Ford. 
5 males, 4 females. 1 interior. Costumes, modern. Plays 2*4. 
hours. 

Sherman Fessenden, unable to induce servants to remain at 
his Jersey home, hits upon the expedient of engaging detectives 
as domestics. 

His second wife, an actress, weary of the country, has suc¬ 
ceeded in discouraging every other cook and butler against 
remaining long, believing that she will convince her husband 
that country life is dead. So she is deeply disappointed when 
she finds she cannot discourage the new servants. 

The sleuths, believing they are called to report on those living 
with the Fessendens, warn Fessenden that his wife has been, 
receiving love-notes from an actor friend, and that his daughter 
is planning to elope with a supposed thief. 

One sleuth causes an uproar making a mess of the situations 
he has witnessed. Fessenden, however, has learned a lesson 
and is willing to leave the servant problem to his wife. 

Enjoyed long runs in New York and Chicago. Royalty, $25.00. 
Price, 75 cents. 


SAMUEL, FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City 
New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed 
Free on Request 



Dulcy 

Comedy in 3 acts. By George S. Kaufman and Marc Con- 
iiolly (with a bow to Franklin P. Adams). 8 males, 3 females. 
1 interior. Costiunes, modern. Plays 2 % hours. 

In her determination to help her husband and friends Dulcy 
plaits a week-end party. They are an ill-assorted group, such' 
as only a Dulcinea could summon about her. Their brief asso¬ 
ciation becomes a series of hilarious tragedies. It is Dulcy’s: 
final blunder which unexpectedly crowns her efforts with success. 

Meanwhile she has all but ruined her husband’s plans to 
put through a big merger with a rich capitalist. Among her 
guests is a rapturous scenario writer wiio conspires to elope 
■with the daughter of the capitalist, who loathes motion pic¬ 
tures. The rich young man from Newport, who Dulcy thinks 
may be useful in assisting the capitalist’s wife to write for the 
films, turns out to be an escaped lunatic. The ex-convict butler 
steals a necklace. Everything goes wrong. But the most ex¬ 
quisite torture she inflicts is when she invites the scenario 
writer to recite one of his hectic plots to music played by the 
lunatic. It is with this that the play reaches its highest level 
of satirical fun. 

“Dulcy” ran for a season in New York, and is now on tour 
throughout the United States and Canada. Royalty, $25.00* 
Price, 75 cents. 

Come Out of the Kitchen 

Comedy in 3 acts, adapted by A. E. Thomas from the story 
by Alice Dner Miller. 6 males, 5 females. 3 interiors. Cos¬ 
tumes, modern. Plays 2% hours. 

“Come Out of the Kitchen,” with Ruth Chatterton in the 
leading role, made a notable success on its production by Henry 
Miller in New York. It was also a great success in Tendon. A 
most ingenious and entertaining comedy. We strongly recom¬ 
mend it for amateur production. Royalty, $25.00. Price, 75 
cents. 

Kempy 

Comedy in 3 acts, by J. C. Nugent and Elliott Nugent. 4 
males, 4 females. 1 interior throughout. Costumes, modern. 
Plays 2*6 hours. 

The story is about a highfalutin daughter who in a fit of 
pique marries the young plumber-architect, who comes to fix 
the water pipe, just because he “understands” her, having 
read her book and sworn to marry the authoress. But in that 
story lies all the humor that kept the audience laughing every 
second. 

The amateur acting rights are reserved for the present in 
all cities and towns where there are stock companies. Royalty 
will be qnoted on application for those cities and towns where 
it may be presented by amateurs. Price, 75 cents. 

^to— moot n—ini —mwaw—■wt— mb«w— a—————w—» 

SAMUEL. FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City 
New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed 
Free on Request 





Tweedles 

A delightful comedy in 3 acts, by Booth Tarkington and 
Harry Leon Wilson. 5 males, 4 females. 1 Interior. Costumes, 
modern. Time 2V£ hours. 

Julian, scion of the blue-blooded Castleburys, falls in love 
with Winsorn Tweedle, daughter of the oldest family in a village 
in Maine. The Tweedles name has been rooted in the community 
for 200 years, and the family look down on “summer people” 
with the vigor that only “summer boarder” communities know. 

The Castleburys are aghast at the possibility of a match, and 
call on the Tweedles to argue against the alliance. Mr. Castle- 
bury explains the barrier of social caste, and the elder Tweedles 
takes it that these summer folk are terrified at the social emi¬ 
nence of the Tweedles. 

Tweedle generously agrees to cooperate with the Castleburys 
to prevent the match. But Winsora brings her father to realize 
that the Castleburys look upon THEM as inferiors. The ©Id 
man threatens vengeance, but Is checkmated when Julian un¬ 
earths family skeletons from the Tweedles closet. Also, Win¬ 
sora takes the matter into her own hands and outfaces the old 
man. So the youngsters go forth triumphant. 

The amateur acting rights are reserved for the present in all 
cities and towns where there are stock companies. Royalty 
will be quoted on application for those cities and towns where 
it may be presented by amateurs. Price, 75 cents. 

Little Women 

A charming play in 4 acts by Marion De Forest, dramatized 
from Louisa M. Alcott’s famous story. 5 males, 7 females. 1 
easy Interior and 1 easy exterior. Costumes 1869. Plays 2% 
hours. 

“Little Women” is the most human and delightful story 
of a family of girls ever written. A classic of childhood’s! 
foibles and follies, it touches a responsive chord in the hearts 
of the younger generation. Yet it is a tale that moves fathers 
and mothers quite as deeply, for the story may well be char¬ 
acterized as the finest delineation of family love and loyalty. 

Produced with tremendous success in the Playhouse, New 
York, where it enjoyed a long run, and was afterwards toured 
for several seasons. Royalty, $25.00. Price, 75 cents. 

Ills Majesty Bunker Bean 

Farcical comedy in 4 acts. By Lee Wilson Dodd, from the 
novel by Harry Leon Wilson. 12 males, 6 females. 4 interiors. 
Costumes, modern. Plays hours. Those who have laughed 
immoderately at the story will he amused by the play, which 
tells of a cowed and credulous youth who became kingly when 
he was tricked into believing himself a reincarnation of Napol¬ 
eon. Ban at Astor Theatre, New York, after 25 weeks in Chica¬ 
go. A delightful and wholesome farce comedy. Royalty, $25.00. 
Price, 75 cents. 


SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City 
New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed 
Free on Request 



Golden Days 

A comedy of youth, in 4 acts, by Sidney Toler and Marion 
Short. 7 males, 10 females. 3 interiors. Costumes modern. 
Plays 2V£ hours. 

“Golden Days’' is a play with all the charm of youth. It 
enjoyed a run of sixteen weeks in Chicago, then came to New 
York, with Helen Hayes as “Mary Anne”. Royalty, $25.00. Price, 
75 cents. 

The Intimate Strangers 

A delightful comedy in 3 acts, by Booth Tarkington. 4 
males, 4 females. 2 interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 2Vs 
hours. 

Beginning with the girl of yesterday and a lawyer of uncer¬ 
tain age, stranded in a railway station, half starved and uncer¬ 
tain of the future, because a hurricane wrecked railway 
hopes on both the main and branch line, it carries the audi¬ 
ence to the home of the girl, where, with delicious comedy, 
the blase lawyer is tortured into submission, after he has dared 
doubt the age of the girl whose hand he kissed the night before. 

Having expressed a sharp opinion of “brazen young huzzies 
in breeches,” he is subjected to the siege of a young woman, 
“in breeches”, who longs for an adventure with an elderly man. 

The lines are delicious and the situations amusing. Royalty, 
$25.00. Price, 75 cents. 


Billeted 

Comedy in S acts, by F. Tennison Jesse and H. Harwood. 4 
males, 5 females. 1 easy interior. A charming comedy, con¬ 
structed with uncommon skill, and abounds with clever lines. 
Margaret Anglin’s big success. Amateurs will find this comedy 
easy to produce and popular with all audiences. Royalty, $25.00. 
Price, 60 cents. 

Just Suppose 

A whimsical comedy in 3 acts, by A. E. Thomas, author of 
“Come Out of the Kitchen”, etc. 6 males, 2 females. 1 interior, 
1 exterior. Costumes, modern. Plays 2% hours. 

It was rumored that during his visit to this country the 
Prince of Wales got away from the pomp of his position and 
appeared for a time under an assumed name. It is on this that 
A. E. Thomas based “Just Suppose”. The action takes place 
in Fair view, Va., where Linda Lee Stafford meets George Shipley, 
(in reality the Prince). It is love at first sight, but, alas, 
princes cannot select their mates and thereby hangs a tale 
which Mr. Thomas has woven with infinite charm. The atmos¬ 
phere of the south dominates the story, touching in its senti¬ 
ment and lightened with delightful comedy. 

Scored a big hit in New York. Royalty, $25.00. Price, 75 
cents. 


SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City 
New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed 
Free on Request 





Daddy Long-Legs 

A charming comedy in 4 acts, by Jean Webster. 8 males, 
7 females, and 8 orphans, bat by easy doubling: of some ehar- 
asters, may be played by 4 males, 4 females and S orphans* 
The orphans appear only in the first act and may be played 
by small girls. 4 easy interiors. Costumes modern. Plays *44 
hoars. 

The New York Times vrrote the following: 

“If you will take your pencil and write down, one below 
the other, the words delightful, charming, sweet, beautiful and 
entertaining, and then draw a line and add them up, the answer 
will be ‘Daddy Long-Legs*. To that result you might even add 
brilliant, pathetic and humorous, but the answer even then 
would be just what it was before—the play which Miss Jean 
Webster has made from her book, 'Daddy Long-Legs*. To at¬ 
tempt to describe the simplicity and beauty of ‘Daddy Long- 
Legs’ would be like attempting to describe the first breath of 
Spring after an exceedingly tiresome and hard Winter.” 

Enjoyed a two-years’ run in New York and was then toured 
for over three years. Royalty, $25.00. Price, 75 cents. 


To the Ladles 

A hilarious comedy in 3 acts, by George S. Kaufman and 
Marc Connelly. 11 males, 3 females. 3 interiors. Costumes, 
modern. Plays 2*4 hours. 

The authors of “Duley” have divulged a secret known t© 
every woman—and to some men, though the men don’t admit it. 

The central figures are young Leonard Beebe and his wife 
Stale, a little girl from Mobile. Leonard is the average young 
American clerk, the kind who read all the “Success” stories in 
the magazines and believe them. Elsie has determined to make 
him something more. She has her hands full—even has to! 
make an after dinner speech for him—but she does it and the 
play shows how. 

Helen Hayes played Elsie and Otto Kruger impersonated 
Leonard in New York, where it ran a whole season. Here's a 
clean and wholesome play, deliciously funny and altogether a 
diverting evening’s entertainment. Royalty, $25.00. Price, 75 

cents. 

Three Live Ghosts 

Comedy in 3 acts by Frederick Isham and Max Marcin. 8 
males, 4 females (2 policemen). 1 interior throughout. Cos¬ 
tumes, modern. Plays 2*4 hours. 

“Three Live Ghosts” is brim full of fun and humor and Is 
sure to keep audiences in gales ©f laughter. The New York 
critics described it as the most ingenious and amusing comedy 
of the season, genninely funny. It played a full season in’ 
New York, then toured the big cities. A lively comedy of merit. 
Royalty, $25.00. Price, 75 cents. 



SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 46th Street, New York City 
New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed 
Free on Request 





FRENCH’S 
Standard Library Edition 

Includes Plays by 

Clyde Fitch 
William Gillette 
Augustus Thomas 
George Broadhurst 
Edward E. Kidder 
Percy MacKaye 
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 
Louis W. Parker 
R. C. Carton 
Alfred Sutro 
Richard Harding Davis 
Sir Arthur W. Pinero 
Anthony Hope 
Oscar Wilde 
Haddon Chambers 
Jerome K. Jerome 
Cosmo Gordon Lennox 
H. V. Esmond 
Mark Swan 
Grace L. Furniss 
Marguerite Merrington 
Hermann Sudermann 
Rida Johnson Young 
Arthur Law 
Rachel Crothers 
Martha Morton 
H. A. Du Souchet 
W. W. Jacobs 
Madeleine Lucette Ryley 

French’s International Copyrighted Edition contains 
plays, comedies and farces of international reputation; 
also recent professional successes by famous Ameri¬ 
can and English Authors. 

Send a four-cent stamp for our new catalogue 
describing thousands of plays. 

SAMUEL FRENCH 

Oldest Play Publisher in the World 
25 W'est 45th Street NEW YORK CITY 


Booth Tarkington 
J. Hartley Manners 
James Forbes 
James Montgomery 
Wm. C. de Mille 
Roi Cooper Megrue 
Edward E. Rose 
Israel Zangwill 
Henry Bernstein 
Harold Brighouse 
Channing Pollock 
Harry Durant 
Wmchell Smith 
Margaret Mayo 
Edward Pepio 
A. E. W. Mason 
Charles Klein 
Henry Arthur Jones 
A. E. Thomas 
Fred. Ballard 
Cyril Harcourt 
Carlisle Moore 
Ernest Denny 
Laurence Housman 
Harry James Smith 
Edgar Selwyn 
Augustin McHugh 
Robert Housum 
Charles Kenyon 
C. ML S. McLellen 



















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